Criminal Limit
by Silens Cursor
Summary: 'The blade must pass through the fire, else it will break.' The Dark Lord aims to break the wizarding world through an arsenal of lies, despair, and betrayal. Using every bit of knowledge, magic, influence, and power he has, Harry must break the tide - before the demons lurking inside break him instead. Sequel to 'Renegade Cause', Harry/Tonks, Daphne/Tracey
1. Introduction: Immunity

**_Author's Notes: I promised I'd get back to it, and now it's about time the tale continues. _**

**_You all knew that at the end of Renegade_ _Cause,__ the story wasn't quite over just yet. I'm hoping to have fairly regular updates with this one - now that I've graduated and I have a secure job, things should come fairly easily. So, as always, read, review, bitch, criticize, and of course, enjoy!_**

**_-Silens Cursor_**

**_Criminal Limit  
_**

**_Introduction: Immunity_**

"You have ten minutes."

There was no expression in his voice. The words could be interpreted any number of ways, even within the paper-thin context of the conversation. Even if they hadn't been the first words uttered upon entry into the dingy, dimly-lit room, one could be forgiven for seeing them as a request, or a mere note of elapsed time.

But the man sitting in the chair opposite the iron table understood immediately, and his eyes widened as the Auror quietly closed the door behind him, his golden eyes never leaving the man in the chair.

"I wan' immunity."

Rufus Scrimgeour snorted. "You're not getting it, Fletcher. Your file is _decades_ thick – you honestly think you can pass off wild ravings for information and still claim immunity?" He shook his head as he sat down in the other chair. "Not even your son Mundungus would –"

"Nephew."

"Excuse me?"

"He's my nephew," Marcellus Fletcher muttered, scratching the chin that Scrimgeour knew was beneath the scraggly grey beard. "Dunno why people say we look like brothers…"

"Well, that's one long-standing mystery finally cleared up," Scrimgeour muttered. "But regardless, your _nephew_ wouldn't even try for such a bargain."

"Cos 'e'd never get it," Fletcher slurred, rubbing his eyes before fixing Scrimgeour with a strangely muted stare. "Dung ain't smart, ya know."

"Yes, not like you," Scrimgeour growled, drumming his fingers on the table. "Even after certain fortunes collapsed, you always found a way to stay out of Azkaban… even I am a little perplexed by it."

"I don' traffic in Dark magic," Fletcher said quietly. "Not… not when I work for Raskul, not when I did a bit fer Abraxas… not even runnin' on my own, I keep clear." The grubby old man shivered, tugging his tattered overcoat tighter around his shoulders. "I keep clear."

"So give me one reason why I shouldn't just hand you over to the Hit Wizards, then," Scrimgeour growled, leaning closer. "Because I know for a fact that they would _dearly_ love to get their hands on you. Marcellus Fletcher, career criminal, a leftover from a bygone era, and only alive and active because…" He paused. "Well, that's a good question, Marcellus. Why _are_ you still active? A man with your wealth could have retired years ago."

"Tha' an assumption," Fletcher grumbled, "and a bad one at 'at. It ain't like the old days, there ain't the same gold innit. Not unless yer…"

His ragged voice trailed off, and Scrimgeour leaned closer.

"Unless… unless _what_, Marcellus?"

"I wan' immunity."

"You came to me, I decide what you get," Scrimgeour snapped. "You _asked_ for me, and you have less than eight minutes to explain yourself."

"You… you don' understand," Fletcher whispered, the dullness in his eyes fading for a few seconds as he glanced with terror at the doors. "He… he could be any –"

"Despite… incidences in the past," Scrimgeour said, gritting his teeth as he remembered the _incident _that had occurred in the Ministry three months prior, "Lord Voldemort – oh, for the love of – _fine_, You-Know-Who will not come bursting through this door."

"And… and the room is –"

"I did all the enchantments myself," Scrimgeour said curtly, folding his arms over his chest. "You wouldn't have come to me if you didn't think you could trust me, Fletcher."

Fletcher swallowed hard and pulled his tattered overcoat a little tighter around himself. "Then I need to tell yeh about a man named Giles Gunther."

* * *

The air stank of stale motor oil and pollution, and one was lucky if they could find water that was translucent instead of murky sludge. Rusted barrels were strewn along the shore, along with broken steel girders, old tires, and other garbage. It was a desolate spot, only connected to the rest of civilization by a battered gravel road long ignored.

And under the cover of a bleak, overcast night, the perfect spot.

A broken spar of metal protruding into the river began to bend, as if something invisible in the water was trying to snap it in two. That invisible thing soon achieved its goal, and the broken hunk of metal splashed into the mire of the coastline.

A shadow behind a heap of discarded metal rose, his silhouette barely visible by the feeble moonlight through the clouds. It was a huge shadow, a grotesque enlargement of a male silhouette – a shadow that held a long twisted wand in one hand and a rusted machete in the other.

There was a scuffling, and the shadow twisted to glare at something deeper in the darkness, behind the overgrown brambles.

"Not yet."

His voice was as guttural as his appearance.

Now the stench of motor oil had grown stronger, and the shadow sniffed the air as he heard something _huge_ brush against the gravel. His dark eyes narrowed as he saw a square of flickering yellow light open out of thin air, and a long, battered metal bridge from the square to the coast materialized.

The figure striding down the bridge was alone, and was a study in contrast. His knee-high boots and heavy gloves were thick shiny hide hide of a beast the shadow didn't recognize, but they seemed out of place with the man's old t-shirt, ragged jeans, and ratty blazer. To complete the strange ensemble, a thick grey cloak was slung over his shoulder, a maroon kerchief tied around his neck, and a faded black cowboy hat sat upon his head.

The man was old, and his skin was lined and cracked from decades in the sea. His long grey hair was tied back, his goatee was thick and dark, and his bright blue eyes gleamed more sharply than the square of light from where had descended.

And unlike the massive shadow stalking towards him, he was unarmed.

"You're late," the shadow growled. The man crossed his arms over his chest, neither impressed nor intimidated.

"And you said you'd come alone," he replied caustically, his perfectly-cultured London accent adding additional clash to his ensemble. "You've got at least fifteen men here by my count."

The shadow stiffened as rage rushed through him. He didn't know how the man knew about his pack, they were _supposed_ to remain unseen. "You at least came unarmed, Gunther."

"It was in good faith," Giles Gunther retorted, stepping off the metal bridge and onto the muddy gravel. "More than I can say for you, Greyback."

"I had to ensure the Dark Lord's property was well-accounted for," Fenrir Greyback snarled, baring his teeth, "and I don't trust smugglers who dress like cowboys and sound like posh London fucks."

The smuggler snorted. "If I let every strongman sent by a warlord or terrorist push me around, I would have been dead in Cuba thirty-five years ago."

"Hence why _I'm_ here," Greyback hissed, stepping a little closer. He added the next sentence as an afterthought. "To do _business_."

Gunther's lip curled. "Of course. You can start with giving me my payment as agreed."

Greyback reached into his overcoat and pulled a leather satchel free. He didn't know what was inside the satchel – the Dark Lord had been explicitly clear that it remained closed until Gunther received it – but it rattled and clattered like dice. He tossed it to the smuggler, who carefully prised it open.

"Well?"

Gunther smirked as he closed the satchel. "It'll do."

"You've been paid," Greyback growled, "now show me the merchandise."

"Well, that's not so simple, is it?" Gunther replied conversationally, glancing behind the werewolf at the heap of scrap and garbage. "Particularly considering you didn't bring anything to _transport_ it."

Greyback's hand tightened on his machete. "Don't play games, Gunther."

"I ship things, like a legitimate businessman, in _shipping containers_," Gunther said evenly. "And unless you want me to unload all eight containers right here, you need to give me a place to drop them. And before you even ask, you're not coming on my ship to inspect the cargo or unload it – it's my personal policy."

Greyback wanted to rip the insufferable badly-dressed man in half, but he tamped down on his rage. _I can always kill him later, but the Dark Lord needs what he has_. "Fine. There's a Muggle container yard further down the river by the Albert Dock. My men will sweep the yard and then you can drop your containers."

"And if you happen to run into Muggles?"

Greyback gave the smuggler a feral grin. "I get hungry on occasion. Midnight snacks are always enjoyable."

* * *

"And you didn't notify authorities immediately?" Scrimgeour demanded. "You saw all of this and you didn't contact our office? Greyback is a servant of You-Know-Who, and if Giles Gunther is the same one from Raskul Dolohov's old organization –"

"The very same," Fletcher mumbled.

" – Then he would likely have a wealth of information about what You-Know-Who is attempting to bring into England!" Scrimgeour finished furiously, slamming an open palm on the table. "How the hell did you spot any of this, anyways?"

Fletcher shifted uncomfortably, and Scrimgeour put a hand to his temple. "Never mind, I'm sure I don't want to know – Merlin knows that if you have a werewolf running with Greyback, he's providing you with valuable information you don't want to compromise. So, what happened when they reached the container yard in Liverpool?"

* * *

The dock was strewn with carnage – Greyback and his group hadn't wasted any time dispatching any Muggle they saw with decisive brutality.

He wiped blood from his mouth as he saw the square of yellow light reappear and the bridge come down. If Gunther was fazed by the sight of them, he didn't respond.

"I assume you're going to clean up?"

Greyback snorted. "It'd be a shame to clear away such a display, but the Dark Lord doesn't want anything getting out. The containers?"

Gunther simply smiled and glanced skyward. Seemingly out of nowhere, an unpainted, unmarked container was suspended in the sky, slowly descending onto the concrete dock.

Greyback sniffed the air. "Are those full?"

"Of course they are."

"They why can't I –"

"They're charmed to insulate their contents from the outside world," Gunther replied coolly, as the container settled onto the dock. "And with Muggle-Repelling Charms, obviously. You'll need to get your own trucks or transportation to get them out of here, but you should have better luck getting them out of the dock than that garbage dump you repurposed as a rendezvous point."

"The keys?" Greyback growled impatiently.

Gunther tossed him a ring. "Each key is numbered, obviously. Inside each container, I also included a manifest of where the cargo was… _acquired_. Quality is hit-and-miss, but the Dark Lord should be satisfied."

"And?"

For a second, the smuggler was nonplussed. "And… what?"

"Who knows about this operation?" Greyback asked. He knew he cut a dangerous figure, his machete still dripping and the bottom half of his face streaked with red. "Did you tie up loose ends?"

"Any loose ends are included in the containers," Gunther replied with a tight smile.

Greyback nodded. "Anything else I should be aware of, in those containers?"

"I didn't discriminate," Gunther said curtly, folding his arms over his chest, "but rest assured there's nothing alive in there." The lines around his mouth twisted into a sneer. "Hope it's not too much of a temptation, werewolf."

"It won't be," Greyback replied calmly. He knew at this point, he didn't need to lie to scare the smuggler. "I prefer them when they're still twitching."

* * *

"So the containers are at the Albert Dock?" Scrimgeour asked, his eyes burning with renewed fervour. "Good, we can take them there before You-Know-Who –"

"The Death Eaters already took 'em," Fletcher said gloomily.

"_Damn it_!" Scrimgeour roared, rising to his feet. "Did you at least figure out where – oh, of course you didn't, you worthless bit of dung! Why did you even bother coming in if you were just going to –"

"Before Greyback sent 'is werewolves to clear the dock, my contact tipped me off, and I brought a few people in to monitor things," Fletcher whispered, his eyes darting nervously to the door again as he lowered his voice. "And… and we caught an owl sent from Gunther's invisible ship."

He glanced up at Scrimgeour. "He wanted to defect – the letter was to Dumbledore. Gunther was going to tell Dumbledore everythin', includin' what was in them containers."

Scrimgeour took a deep breath as he sat down. "And… and you _have_ this letter?"

"It consumed itself," Fletcher said apologetically. "Sorry. But here's where things get… _odd_."

Scrimgeour sniffed. "Really. I could hardly imagine this getting –"

"This mornin', the Muggle police found Gunther up the coast." Fletcher glanced at the door and took a shuddering breath. "And there was a little piece of metal embedded in his forehead from one of them Muggle weapons. Someone shot 'em – Gunther, he dead."

Scrimgeour paused – he didn't quite know what to say, but he couldn't help but feel a chill run up his spine. "And the Muggle police, do they have any idea –"

"Eyewitness says she saw it happen," Fletcher whispered, his voice quivering. "I had someone overhear her talk to the police, and…"

He swallowed hard. "I wan' immunity."

"If your information is really as good as you claim, you'll get it," Scrimgeour said impatiently. "So who did this eyewitness describe?"

"It had to be a wizard, see," Fletcher mumbled, "'cause no one else'd be fast enough to take down old Gunther, blow his hat clean off his head – "

"Fletcher," Scrimgeour growled. "Who killed Giles Gunther?"

Marcellus Fletcher glanced at the door one last time, real terror in his eyes. "Big bald black man. Dressed like a Muggle, but I'd know that face anywhere. And… and so would you."

Scrimgeour immediately understood why Fletcher wanted immunity, and despite himself, he felt a cold hand of fear grip his gut. He wanted to feel a rush of triumph, but this time it wouldn't come – he knew Gunther's death was a message.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt," Scrimgeour breathed, his voice barely audible. "Son of a _bitch_."


	2. Chapter 1: New Dimensions

_**Author's Notes: and here's where we get into the story proper. Fair warning, if you haven't read Renegade Cause, some elements might prove confusing and complicated (a lot happened in that story - hell, if you're writing over 500,000 words and nothing much happens, you're doing something wrong). I'm going to try to keep things clear, given some of you might not remember elements of **__**Renegade**_** _Cause,_****_ but if you're looking for a time for a reread of that story... Ah, you'll keep up. In any case, read, review, bitch, criticize, and enjoy!_**

**_-Silens Cursor_**

_Chapter 1: New Dimensions  
_

The tattoo was hardly visible against his dark skin. Even in good light, it only appeared like a reddish discolouration – a bad bruise on his left forearm, easily explained.

For what he planned to do tonight, it was ideal. His target would never see it coming.

The dress robes he had chosen were a rich charcoal shade, light enough to have texture but dark enough to conceal him if necessary. No cloak or cape with these robes – he was looking to be swift and avoid attention, not make a scene.

His fingertips brushed over the hat that had come with the robes. He did like the hat – it had a certain crisp quality to it that he found appealing – but was it too much? Perhaps. He'd decide before he left.

His shoes had been polished and carefully enchanted to leave no trace of his passing. His gloves had similar enchantments, enough to strike any impression they might make on any surface, be it dust, mud, or flesh. It was an old enchantment – one frowned upon, for it smacked of a less 'civilized' age – but it would do its job well.

Besides, he wasn't looking to be entirely 'civil' tonight.

He picked up his wand and eyed it carefully. The Trace was still on it – an inconvenience he knew would be temporarily rectified tonight. His window would be small, though – he'd have to be quick, and be lucky.

He didn't want to count on either speed or luck. For this, he wanted to take his time.

Whenever he had considered joining, he had been acutely aware of what his final test would be. He had been very much aware of what he would have to do to prove himself. It had been something he had long thought about, something with which he'd struggled. Would he have the nerve to consider it, to approach his target, and to follow through?

It had haunted him. Fortunately, the choice had been made for him – and he couldn't deny that the results were particularly appealing. He felt a quiver of anticipation in his gut – _this_ target was one with which he had no problems. _This_ target was a traitor on many levels,_ this_ target deserved his fate.

He heard a crackle of flames, and he glanced at the small fireplace in his room. Where there once had sat smoldering coals, now there were grey flames – and among those flames was a man's head bearing a nervous-looking expression.

"It's time," Avery said with a slight cough. "He's… he's arrived at the bank."

"Good," Blaise Zabini replied curtly, idly scratching his smooth chin as he contemplated taking the hat. "Is everything in place?"

"There's nothing you need to be worried about," Avery said, a reassuring note in his voice. "We'll take care of any bodyguards or accessories he'll have – it'll just be you and him, one on one. We'll even take care of the clean-up."

"Good." His fingers closed on the brim of the hat, and he slowly set it on his head. A glance in the mirror told him what he already knew – the hat complimented his robes excellently, and didn't appear all that ostentatious. It was stylish, but it wasn't gaudy or out-of-place. "I'll be taking the Portkey to the bank – we'll speak there."

Avery nodded, and his head vanished along with the flames. Blaise couldn't help but feel his lip curling with disdain – Avery was a coward through and through. He wondered how the man could have possibly passed the Dark Lord's test.

But that was irrelevant. Tonight was an important night – there was a traitor that needed to be silenced, a man who should have left well enough alone. But he hadn't, and the following fiasco had led to his wife's – Blaise's mother's – untimely passing. A passing that Blaise had gotten over – deep down, he knew it was inevitable – but one for which he wouldn't mind a few minutes of cathartic vengeance.

The Dark Lord had understood that – and had graciously given Blaise a target he couldn't refuse.

He took a deep breath, a tight little smile appearing on his face. Tonight, he was going to kill his step-father – and he was going to enjoy every second of it.

* * *

She knew that she should know better by now, but she still found it amazing how nothing had changed when she returned home.

The pillars were still polished marble, a rich beige contrasting with the pure white that was the normal pureblood manor décor. The wallpaper colour was different in every room, but each colour was rich and distinguished, a plethora of burgundies and tans, all just a shade away from being stuffy. The floors – with the exception of her room – were all polished stone, a conceit of her father's that she knew took the house-elves constant effort to keep clean. But the strangest thing was that there were no hard edges or corners in the house: the ceilings were arched, the corners of every room were rounded off, the windows were rounded, and even the doors were oval.

All of that – combined with the fact that there wasn't an inch of wood trim in the entire house – gave the house a decidedly odd feel, trapping of antiquity contrasting harshly with the elements that were far more 'modern' than even the Muggle world tended to be. But it was an oddness that she had grown up with, that she was familiar with. This manor would never change – it was half a step out of time.

She felt that she _should_ dislike this – compared to the traditionalist manors like Parkinson's, her home was bohemian, almost heretical – but she knew her father was a little odd. He had never joined the Death Eaters with the rest of his classmates, instead focusing on odd little projects and patents that somehow produced bountiful rewards. He should have been ostracized, but somehow the man had never lost his popularity.

"He'll never change," she whispered to herself as the house-elves set her trunk at the base of her four-poster bed. Her room was a little more traditional – the thick black carpet felt warm against her toes – but her father's quirkiness had spread here, with the furnishings either polished stone or smooth, gently curved metal.

It was home, just the way she had left it, but she couldn't help but feel a twinge of nervousness. Would she like it? Most weren't accepting of oddities, particularly considering nobody would be expecting them –

"And here's Daphne's bedroom," her father finished cheerfully, sliding the door open and waving his hand expansively. "Hope you find it comfortable for the sleep-over after the reception at the bank. As far as I know, the reception won't go all that late, so you'll have plenty of time for girl stuff –"

"Dad!" Daphne said with a wince, unable to prevent colour flooding to her cheeks. "I don't – look, can you have one of the house elves grab Ringo from the car? I think Tracey needs some time to take things in."

Her father smiled warmly. He was a big man, most his muscle going to seed, but he still moved with the speed and agility of a much younger man. His face was cheerful, open, and with a classical handsomeness that was an odd contrast with the childlike energy in his eyes. Even the man Paulus Greengrass was a study in eccentricity.

"Not a problem, dear. Just so you know, the reception at the bank is in a few hours. Dress well – you'll be the one leading this family someday, so you'll want to put your best foot forward –"

"Dad," Daphne interrupted, trying to avoid letting annoyance get into her voice, "just… just go get Ringo, okay? Get him some owl pellets, I ran out when I was on the train."

Her father nodded and gave her another smile, closing the door behind him – leaving her alone with Tracey.

"Look, I'm sorry about my dad," Daphne said quickly, raking a hand through her long dark hair and avoiding Tracey's eyes. "He give you the full tour?"

"Yeah –"

"I wish I could say he's been like this since Mum passed away," she continued, snapping open her trunk and picking up an armful of robes, "but if I'm being completely honest he's _always_ been like this –"

"Daphne."

She met Tracey's eyes. There was no judgement in those sky-blue eyes – those beautiful, beautiful sky-blue eyes. There wasn't even condescension or amusement. There was just something that made Daphne feel a little tremble in her gut.

And then she smiled, and Daphne felt a rush of relief. She wasn't judging him, she was going with it, she was accepting…

"Your dad is cute, Daph," Tracey said kindly, pulling her into an embrace. "Nothing like what I expected."

Daphne looked away. "Yeah, if you thought he was anything like me –"

"You and I both know there's more to you than that," Tracey said, tapping the shorter girl on the nose. "And anyway, you know me – you knew I wouldn't judge –"

Daphne didn't hesitate – she cut off Tracey in mid-sentence, dropping the robes on the floor and pressing her lips against Tracey's, their tongues hungrily caressing each other…

"We have time," Tracey whispered, her blonde hair already growing more tousled as she bent to nibble lovingly on Daphne's neck. "A few hours before the reception."

"My dad could walk in any time," Daphne whispered. The nervous feeling in her stomach – a nervous feeling she had had since she had gotten on the train – was only growing stronger. "He doesn't know about…"

"I don't think he'll judge –"

"Oh, I'm sure he won't, but I still want to… look, just give me some time." Daphne took a deep breath. "We'll break it to him when the time's right – _Tracey_!"

Tracey shyly slid her fingers out of Daphne's skirt and batted her eyes. "Oh, come on. We'll keep quiet – well, _I'm_ capable of being quiet."

Daphne felt more colour flood to her face. "I… look, you need to worry about your parents than my dad. And we still haven't come out to anyone at Hogwarts –"

Tracey rolled her eyes. "For all they know we're friends. Besides, nobody at Hogwarts has any imagination. Your attitude keeps them well enough away."

"Don't think I don't have a reason," Daphne muttered, glancing out the window – her father had retrieved her barn owl from the car. "And besides, we're not going to have time now – we need to get ready for this reception. I have to ask, who the devil decides to put some fucking bank reception on the day everyone gets back from Hogwarts? You'd think if they wanted us to be there, they'd give us a couple of days to relax…"

"We'll be fine," Tracey said lightly. "Besides, it's funny watching you outtalk people who underestimate you."

Daphne cocked an eyebrow. "Funny?"

Tracey's hand toyed with the top of her own skirt this time as she flashed Daphne a surprisingly lascivious grin. "Well, not _just_ funny…"

Daphne couldn't help but smile a bit at that. Tracey was so open and honest that any attempt for her to appeal deceitful or scheming or seductive just looked ridiculous, and they both knew it.

"You sure you don't want to do anything now?"

"_Yes_, Tracey," Daphne said firmly. "We need to get ready. Don't worry, we'll have fun after."

"Promise?"

Daphne closed her eyes and pictured it in her mind – and she felt a hot rush of anticipation. "Oh yeah," she murmured, "I promise."

* * *

"So girls, are you excited?"

"No."

Tracey nudged Daphne in the ribs and she sighed. "Sorry, but it's true. We just got back from Hogwarts and now we're going to a banking reception?"

"Daphne, I understand," her father said, glancing from his position behind the wheel to give her a meaningful look. "And normally, I wouldn't ask either of you to come to this, but this is very important to me. It's key the Greengrass family show strength going forward."

Daphne frowned, and exchanged confused glances with Tracey. "We've never really cared about family strength before."

"It's true that I've worked to keep us out of politics," Mr. Greengrass said calmly, "but recently, I received an owl from Vesparian Welmon, one of the board members for the International Wizard Banking Consortium – you know, the one that's sponsoring the reception tonight."

"Just call it the IWBC," Daphne muttered to Tracey. "It's easier."

"In any case, Welmon is looking to replace Barnabus Cuffe's former seat on the IWBC's board of directors, since it's been sitting vacant since he died."

"No great loss."

"I heard that, Daphne," Mr. Greengrass said reprovingly. "I know you didn't like the man, but that's not appropriate. In any case, since the successor to Cuffe's office is Rita Skeeter, and _nobody_ wants her near the board of a new bank, everyone has been trying to fill the position with their own candidate."

Daphne guessed where the conversation was going, but Tracey spoke up first. "Congratulations, Mr. Greengrass! That's great!"

"I've only been nominated, Tracey, I don't have the position yet," Mr. Greengrass replied lightly. "However, there's a very good chance the board will vote in my favour and the Greengrass family will get a very welcome boost."

"But Dad, are you sure you want this?" Despite her own excitement, Daphne had a funny feeling that this didn't sound like the best of ideas. "I mean, you're trying to keep us out of politics, and now you're going to join a board that, well…"

She let her voice trail off, leaving the implication unspoken. But she knew her father got it – ever since the Ministry had made the press release over the Wizarding Wireless Network (she heard that the criminal Sirius Black had been involved in an attack on _The Daily Prophet_ offices), everyone had been tense. The Dark Lord was apparently back, having been seen at an incident in the Ministry of Magic, and suspicions were running high. And to join a board on a bank with rumoured connections to him…

"I'll be fine, Daphne," her father said reassuringly, taking a quick turn down a side street and slipping between two cars, which seemed to juke out of the way as he sped down the road. "Welmon thinks that since people like me, I'll provide something of a positive light to the board, stop some of the infighting and work to provide a good counterpart to Gringotts. It was hard enough getting them to accept the IWBC's _existence_ – if we want to compete with the goblins, we need a united front."

"And what exactly does this get _us_?" Daphne pursued.

Mr. Greengrass gave Daphne a shifty expression. "Well, there _are_ certain perks to being a board member of a powerful bank, Daphne, and my new project with the automobiles is going to take a lot of capital to get the talent and staff…"

"My dad's trying to create a wizarding car industry from scratch," Daphne quickly explained to Tracey. "It's slow-going –"

"Wasn't there an article a couple years ago in the _Prophet_ about a flying car that crashed at Hogwarts?" Tracey said curiously. "I can't remember what the article said – Draco was going on about it, I think Harry Potter was involved, and he got the car from –"

"Ron Weasley," Daphne said, the memory coming back. "Yeah, I remember the Howler Weasley got from his mother."

"So couldn't you –"

"It's a good idea, Tracey," Mr. Greengrass said tiredly, "but unfortunately, if I take the position at the IWBC, I'll never be able to hire Arthur Weasley, no matter how revolutionary his designs might be. If I hire a blood traitor, my business will be sunk before I sell the first vehicle." Daphne saw a trace of frustrated anger on the man's face. "It's a shame – so inefficient…"

"Dad, the Leaky Cauldron's coming up," Daphne said sharply.

"So it is," Mr. Greengrass said, his eyes immediately brightening. "Okay, should we try –"

"Dad, it's not a good idea to experiment with new ideas while we have guests in the car!"

Mr. Greengrass snorted. "Ah, Daphne, you're no fun. Very well, I'll leave that one for another day –"

"Good –"

"And try _this_ one instead!"

He jabbed a grey square button on the dashboard with his finger, and immediately pulled the car into a hard left – driving straight at the Leaky Cauldron doorway!

Daphne's breath caught in her throat and she opened her mouth to scream – only to close it in astonishment as the car slipped _through_ the crack of the closed door! But it seemed like the crack was incredibly wide around them, and even as they drove into the crowd of people filling the tavern, every person seemed spaced so far apart…

"Hold on, girls, this part might get a bit rough," Mr. Greengrass called as they slipped through the crack of the ajar back door of the bar, zooming straight towards the brick wall –

There was an echoing bang, and suddenly, they were trundling along Diagon Alley. The crowds had mostly gone home for the day, but a few people jumped out of the way as the car drove down the narrow lane.

Daphne exhaled heavily – she hadn't realized she had been holding her breath the entire time. "Okay, Dad, what the hell did you –"

"Oh, nothing to worry about," Mr. Greengrass said breezily. "Just did a few things manipulating the car's external dimensions. It's a fun trick, sort of like reverse-engineering an Undetectable Extensions Charm –"

"I'll take your word for that," Daphne interrupted, breathing heavily, trying to calm her frayed nerves. She glanced at Tracey, but her friend was just smiling.

Daphne glanced down and saw her right hand in Tracey's left – they hadn't let go the entire ride.

"All right, girls," Mr. Greengrass said, the car slowing to a stop in front of a towering stone building. "You two know what to do – as long as we keep cool heads and our eyes on the prize, we can probably still have some fun tonight. Ready?"

Daphne and Tracey exchanged smiles.

"As we'll ever be," Daphne replied sardonically.

* * *

"I don't like this."

Rita Skeeter raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. "Oh? Do you have an aversion to speaking with members of the free press?"

"I have an aversion to speaking to members of a press who are quite willing to twist every word I say," Rufus Scrimgeour growled, his grip tightening on his water glass, "to suit their own personal vendettas."

"You assume I have a vendetta." She gave him a wry smile she knew would infuriate him. "That's very telling, Auror Scrimgeour – I'm hurt that you don't trust me."

"I don't trust you because of a lifetime of experience," Scrimgeour said harshly. "But then again, shouldn't a member of the free press trust her sources?"

Rita's eyes narrowed behind her jewel-rimmed glasses, and her smile vanished. "There was a certain degree of negligence in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement over the past year – and it was under your watch. Too many good witches and wizards died."

"And nobody is more angry about it than me," Scrimgeour said acidly, his voice dropping to a basso rumble. "You honestly think I want to face _his _second coming critically undermanned?"

"Are you making a statement?" The Quick-Quotes Quill was at her fingertips in seconds. "Because I'd love to hear the perspective of the Head of the Auror Office –"

"_Put that away_!" Scrimgeour hissed furiously, scanning the crowded room hastily. The IWBC reception had only just begun, but already the room was filled with people that Rita could tell the Head Auror didn't trust. "I'm not giving a statement, and I'm not asking for an interview."

Of course he wasn't, but Rita had expected that – she knew that the only reason Scrimgeour would talk to her, even despite her elevated position, was if he had a special, private request. But despite her craving for the dirty information she knew she'd get, there was still a burning sensation in her gut, a feeling of barely supressed disappointment – and fury.

"You know," she said slowly, tucking her quill into her handbag and picking up a vibrantly coloured drink from a passing serving maid, "if I didn't know how to hold my tongue, I'd say you're doing a certain man's memory a disservice."

Scrimgeour's jaw clenched. "And I'd say, for the twentieth time, that you had a very, _very_ narrow perspective of a man whose personal neuroses should have had him committed, much less earn him an Order of Merlin Third Class!"

She didn't restrain her triumphant smile this time – it was a hard-fought victory, and she knew he had earned it. "He saved my life and actually gave a damn about me when everyone else left me for dead."

"Oh, and what a loss that would have been," Scrimgeour remarked caustically. "No, instead you wilfully blind yourself to the crimes of a Hit Wizard who ignored due process, ignored orders, unlawfully detained and _tortured_ suspects, and lest we all forget, attempted to investigate corruption within the Ministry while somehow not discovering that his _own partner_ was controlled by Lord Volde – oh, get over yourself, it's just a name!"

"Not here it isn't," Rita muttered, glancing around the room, fighting to keep worry from showing on her face. She wasn't scared – she _wasn't_ – but after the events at Bonaccord Hall and the loopholes that had been used by some to avoid prosecution, she wasn't taking any chances. Fortunately, the position of Head Editor at _The Daily Prophet_ gave her some measure of protection – although not enough for her tastes. "And he had a point regarding corruption in the Ministry – and no Hit Wizard I've talked to can tell me where his case files went –"

"Regardless, the man is _dead_," Scrimgeour said, draining his water glass and setting it on a table. "He descended into the _Prophet_ offices when it was being consumed by _Fiendfyre_, and nobody saw him leave. He's dead, and thanks to _you_," he added, glaring balefully at her, "he won't be forgotten any time soon."

"You can't deny that he'd be useful right about now," Rita pursued as Scrimgeour pulled out his wand and sprayed a light stream of water into his glass.

Scrimgeour ignored her remark as he raised the glass to his lips. "In any case, the reason I wanted to talk to you – off-the-record, just so we're clear – is because I'd like for you to pursue an investigation. Into a Ministry case."

Rita crossed her arms over her chest – tastefully exposed just enough to attract gazes and wagging tongues. "Of corruption? From what I heard about you, Scrimgeour, that's a bit rich –"

"If you want to rely on fairy tales spread by questionably sane retired Aurors with missing eyes and legs, I can't help you," Scrimgeour replied tersely. "But what I'm referring to is something more… covert. There was an incident in Liverpool last night, and I need information outside of standard process. Information that doesn't always turn up in an Auror or Hit Wizard investigation."

"It's hard to believe anything manages to slip past you," Rita replied sarcastically. "I mean you have such a sterling record –"

"This is regarding a wizard smuggler that was killed with a Muggle weapon," Scrimgeour continued, his glare intensifying. "I have a team investigating, but my primary suspect is…"

He let his voice trail off, and Rita got it immediately.

"You think you have another traitor."

"Not so simple this time," Scrimgeour muttered. "From all reports, he remains loyal – during the fight at Azkaban last Yule he took on You-Know-Who himself by all reports – but I've never completely trusted him. I need a reliable source of information on what he is doing, and if someone is pulling his strings. I don't want another 'Reed Larshall' case."

Rita pursed her lips – she couldn't deny that it was appealing, and uncovering a new scandal would lead to excellent headlines. However…

"Not enough. Give me something else."

"I'm giving you the inside scoop on a murder investigation," Scrimgeour hissed, his voice choked with growing rage, "and you want _more_?"

Rita smirked. "You need me more than I need you, Rufus – and between you and me, I like watching you _squirm_."

Scrimgeour looked as if he wanted to throttle her, but somehow he reined in his temper. "_Fine_," he growled, "how about a little exclusive scoop?"

The Quick-Quotes Quill was in her hand. "I'm all ears –"

"Put that away, I said!" Scrimgeour snapped. "I want this transcribed exactly – I can't afford a misinterpretation. It can cost people their careers."

Rita scowled, but tucked away the quill and pulled out her luxury swan feather quill, enchanted never to split or break. She didn't need a Spell-Checking Enchantment – her spelling and grammar was impeccable.

"As you know, the Minister For Magic is in disgrace, and he'll be sacked within a few weeks."

"Tell me something I don't know," Rita said with a scoff, sipping on her drink. "I think the only question is why it didn't happen three months ago after You-Know-Who attacked the Ministry!"

"If certain members of the Wizengamot had had their way, he would have been gone months ago," Scrimgeour replied briskly. "But the decision was taken out of their hands, because another certain someone – rightfully so, I might add – decided it was more important to have a smooth transition."

"Dumbledore, obviously," Rita said. "Even after the man decided it would be a good idea to bring a live _dragon_ into the Ministry –"

"After the former Supreme Mugwump died, the International Confederation of Wizards needed a familiar face to smooth things over, regardless of acts that might have proven… _complicated_," Scrimgeour said, gritting his teeth. "And considering he had to settle the goblin issue and resolve the confusing mess of whatever the hell happened at Hogwarts, it took time for him to turn his attention to Fudge."

"And during which Fudge decided to clean out his office of anything that could possibly implicate him in any criminal negligence," Rita said, her voice filled with raw hatred, "like all of the _deaths_ during the Azkaban attack."

"Considering how much the former Supreme Mugwump was involved in covering all of that up, Fudge's case would be airtight," Scrimgeour replied, the disgust in his voice matching Rita's. "I'm as angry as you are regarding this, but at this point, Fudge is irrelevant. What's important is the future."

"Where you'll be running for Minister the second Fudge steps down," Rita said immediately. "Oh, don't give me that look, you've wanted the job for years, that's common knowledge. _That's_ your big scoop?"

"Hardly." For the first time since they had spoken, Scrimgeour let a tight smile slip onto his face. "Because even though I will be running unopposed, I'll have a certain backer that'll guarantee my victory."

"But who are…" Rita's eyes widened as she suddenly connected the dots. "Are you serious?"

"Of course I am."

"But what did you – when did you – how did you manage to convince _him_?"

Scrimgeour hid his growing smile behind his water glass. "Let me just say," he said calmly, "that Harry Potter and I are a lot more alike than one might think, and that we have something of an, ah, _understanding_."

* * *

"So," Mr. Greengrass said briskly, "I'm assuming everything is going well."

"As well as it can be," Vesparian Welmon replied tersely, and Daphne saw his fingers fiddle with a button on his brown waistcoat. "I won't know until the board meets in an hour. What's your impression?"

"As good as ever," Mr. Greengrass said lightly, "in that nobody's ever said a bad word about it to me, but then again, I'm well aware that sort of thing doesn't get said one's face." He glanced meaningfully at Daphne and Tracey. "Take note, girls – the men you can trust the most are the ones who are willing and able to say horrible things about you while they stare you in the eye."

Welmon laughed awkwardly. "Look, Paulus, obviously nobody's going to tell _me_ much of anything –"

"Well, what about Castellan Zabini?" Mr. Greengrass frowned as he tapped on his plate with his fork. "I know he's not on the board, but he was one of the first to move his capital here and I know he has some pull with Peter O'Sanden and Narcissa Malfoy, especially since the latter took over her husband's seat –"

"It's Narcissa _Black_ now," Welmon said in a low voice, "and I haven't been able to find Castellan all night. I knew he checked in, I saw the guestbook…"

Suddenly, Daphne felt a hand on her leg through her dress robes. The conversation suddenly seemed a lot less interesting as she turned to Tracey.

"Yes?"

"Don't be so openly worried," Tracey said quietly. "Your dad's a great guy, he'll get it –"

"What, you don't think I know that?" Daphne tried to keep a derisive edge in her voice, but Tracey's knowing expression didn't help her composure. She settled by rolling her eyes and returning to picking at her salad. The dressing was a little bitter for her tastes, but it was still good.

_As it should be_, she thought to herself as she glanced around the massive conference room repurposed as a banquet hall. Like Gringotts, the International Wizard Banking Consortium had opted for plenty of marble and gold, all lit by sparkling chandeliers casting sharp reflections off of polished tables of bronze and glass. Between every table serving maids rushed with platters loaded impossibly high with plates and crystal. Daphne guessed that between the heels and the impossible loads, magic was somehow involved.

And throughout the crowded hall there was a hubbub of chatter, punctuated by the clinking of glasses, the scuffling of chairs on stone, and the burbling sound of fine liquor splashing into crystalline glasses, all of it supplemented by the rich smells of exotic perfume, expensive alcohol, and thick cigar smoke.

"And they wonder why one might find high pureblood society appealing," Daphne murmured.

Tracey squeezed her leg. "Yeah, but it's a shame the company's not always that good."

"Oh, I think it's pretty damn good tonight," Daphne replied, looking back and meeting Tracey's eyes. "I could start to enjoy this a lot more if it was just you and I –"

Tracey abruptly bent closer. "Don't look now, but you might want to turn around at some point and take a look at the bar," she whispered. "If it's who I think it is…"

Daphne didn't look, but immediately her heartbeat kicked into gear. "You're not saying –"

"Three Slytherins from our year disappeared last March," Tracey said nervously, "and I could be wrong – actually, I hope I'm wrong. Should we –"

"You stay here," Daphne said curtly, getting to her feet. "I'll talk to him."

The smile was effortless, although she kept the seductive edge bottled up – that was for Tracey and no one else. But even without it, she knew between her luscious brown hair, near-perfect skin (she was still a teenager, and magic could only get you so far some days), and sky-blue dress robes, she could throw people off-balance.

And with _him_, she wanted every advantage she could get.

She took a roundabout way to the bar, but kept circumspectly checking his location with every reflection she could find. He hadn't left, or moved much out of the thin shadow he'd appropriated. There was something about his posture – hunched, averted, keeping his features out of direct light.

_I don't know who he's trying to hide from_, Daphne thought coolly as she reached the middle of the bar and surreptitiously moved a little closer. _Something's changed about him... well, better the old acquaintance you know than the enemy you never realize._

"You know," she said conversationally, not glancing over to him as she accepted the damp wineglass from the bartender, "if you're trying to be inconspicuous, you still need some work. The white-blond hair is a dead giveaway."

"Maybe I don't care."

Daphne looked over at that comment – and immediately wished she hadn't.

Draco Malfoy was no longer the handsome young man that he'd been a year ago. Now his face was cracked, and seamed with twisted, ragged scars. His normally pale face was now split by jagged red lines, ruining a complexion that had once been perfect. But that wasn't the only thing that was gone – the arrogance, the stiff conceit and haughty demeanour, they were gone too. The ragged chunks torn from his face were only the physical representation of what he was missing.

_He looks worse than Mad-Eye Moody_, Daphne thought, a sick feeling welling up in her gut. _Merlin, what the hell happened…_

"You see, the scars do a good enough job driving people away," Malfoy said listlessly, toying with the empty sniffer of Firewhiskey on the bar. "I don't need to have an Invisibility Cloak to be invisible to people now – particularly _these_ people."

The contempt in Malfoy's voice was thick, but Daphne spotted the hypocrisy immediately. "A year ago, you'd never say something like that."

"A year ago, I wasn't contemplating the fact that in a few months, Harry Potter would feel the urge to shove my face into a cauldron of _acid_," Malfoy said in a low voice, the even tone belying the rage beneath it. "A year ago, I hadn't watched my family become utterly disgraced, abandoned by our kin as scapegoats for goblin _filth_. A year ago, I hadn't been torn to bloody _fragments_ by a cannibalistic werewolf before being put back together again without the slightest care for appearances." He shook his head. "No, a year ago, none of that was on my mind."

"Guess that shows the benefits of neutrality," Daphne said coolly, drumming her fingers on the bar. "You don't get turned into a shredded shell of a man."

"If I had a choice –" He caught himself in mid-sentence, and then shook his head, a bitter smile appearing on his face as he looked down into his glass. "It would have been the same."

He glanced back up at Daphne. "Your dry wit does you credit. I've missed that."

Daphne snorted. "Yeah, well, I can't say the same. You might actually grow as a human being, now that you've lost half your face and it turns peoples' stomachs to look at you."

"My own mother won't even look at me." Daphne saw his hands clench into fists. "She's repulsed – changed her name back to Black to have a shot at my father's IWBC board seat –"

"My mother's been dead for eleven years," Daphne snapped, "and I'm not here to compare tragedies, or listen to you whine."

Whatever was left of Malfoy's lip curled. "Typical Daphne. Where's your sister?"

"I don't know and I don't care," Daphne replied curtly.

"Such sisterly affection –"

"Died the second she started making cracks against Tracey," Daphne interrupted, her eyes flashing. "I can tolerate a lot, but there are certain subjects that are off-limits."

Malfoy understood the unspoken threat, and Daphne couldn't help but scowl. He had always been an arrogant, conniving pissant, but he had always been smarter than most of the Slytherins in the year. _Hell, if he's lost the ego now, he might be tolerable._

"So where's the others?" she asked bluntly. "Where's Nott?"

"Dead."

The answer surprised her, but not much – whispered rumours were that Nott had begun losing his mind when the spiritual attacks on Hogwarts had started, until the day he just disappeared altogether.

"Are you –"

"I refuse to mourn for Theodore Nott," Malfoy said curtly. "He got precisely what he deserved."

The finality in Malfoy's tone didn't brook any conversation, so Daphne dropped it. "And Blaise?" she asked.

Malfoy's ugly face twisted into an uglier scowl. "Let's just say he's claiming his mother's legacy."

* * *

Castellan Zabini stumbled backwards. He felt an ornamental table crash behind him as he nearly tripped. His eyes were fixed on the figure stalking purposefully towards him, his face utterly devoid of expression – or pity.

"You see, it goes something like this," Blaise said in a low, smooth voice as he stepped closer. "There's a certain place that I want to be."

Castellan's hand darted into his coat pocket – where the devil had he slipped his wand –

"And to get to that place, there needs to be confidence in my abilities."

"I – I can write you a l-letter of recommendation," Castellan stammered, his hands still darting inside his pockets – the damn jacket had so many, where the hell was his wand –

Blaise's laugh was short and derisive. "While I appreciate the gesture, the letter isn't required for this position." He stepped even closer, and Castellan felt the first tremor of fear as he realized just how close the wall was behind him.

"No, for _this_ position, I have to pass a very specific test to show that I have the appropriate skill set," Blaise continued, stepping even closer. Castellan took another step backwards – and felt the cold dark stone of the wall behind him.

"And there's always a point," Blaise hissed, "that the son succeeds the father."

"You – you're no son of mine!" Castellan cried desperately. "I would never –"

He couldn't speak another word – Blaise's gloved hand had snapped out, slamming his father's throat into the wall.

"You're right," he said, his voice never rising above the low even tones of a man discussing a business negotiation. "You're not my father – I helped my mother _bury_ my father. You, you're just a craven addition that my mother used for sex and padding her bank account."

Castellan thrashed helplessly, his wheezing protests cut by the growing implacable pressure on his throat.

"I've buried a lot of 'fathers', Castellan Zabini," Blaise said calmly. "Those times, my mother was the one who reaped the rewards. I think it's time for _my_ cut."

His second hand was on the old man's throat now, and Castellan's breathing just _stopped_. His airway was completely blocked, his heart began racing furiously as he tried to struggle out a final plea…

But Blaise's expression was calm, collected, and utterly cold. Utterly merciless.

"It's not personal," he whispered, "it's _business_."

The pressure increased, and Castellan Zabini died as his windpipe imploded.

* * *

"So considering that you have nothing better to do," Daphne said icily, "why don't you explain to me why you're here?"

"Politics."

"That's not an answer."

"That's all you need to know," Malfoy replied curtly. "It's not that I don't want to tell you –"

"You don't."

"I'm trying to preserve your precious neutrality," Malfoy said, tapping his glass on the bar and gesturing for a refill. "That's all. Ask me something else if you want us to keep talking."

"Okay," Daphne said acidly, "then if you're so smart, why don't you explain why there are no house-elves serving tonight, and instead we have those human maids instead."

"It's a show of wealth."

The voice was immediately familiar, and Malfoy went abruptly rigid as he saw the newest arrival at the bar. Daphne turned – she hadn't quite _believed_ it when she had heard the voice – but she couldn't help but let a flash of surprise cross her face. _Why on earth is he_ –

"I apologize, Miss Greengrass," Albus Dumbledore said graciously, tilting his purplish hat in her direction, "for interjecting, but I would never want to pass up the chance to educate my students outside of Hogwarts. No, the board of the International Wizard Banking Consortium decided on using human maids to show a degree of universality. In the majority of cases, it is only the old pureblood families that possess house-elves – here, they are making a statement that quality service can be attained regardless of personal wealth. It's a statement that shows surprising progressive thinking, and it's an interesting decision."

Daphne opened her mouth, and then closed it quickly. "Ah, that… that makes sense."

"It does," Dumbledore said solemnly. "Also, Miss Greengrass, please pass along my congratulations to your father for his nomination – he is a very good man, and he has a great mind." He glanced past Daphne and his eyes brightened. "Ah, good evening Draco."

Malfoy's grey eyes bulged slightly as he kept his gaze firmly on the Headmaster. "E-Evening, Headmaster."

"I understand that the O.W.L. committee did have a chance to evaluate you from your current residence," Dumbledore said lightly, "so I am looking forward to seeing you return to Hogwarts in September."

A muscle was visibly twitching in Malfoy's jaw. "I – I – thank you, sir."

Dumbledore smiled warmly. "Excellent, very good to hear. Firewhiskey?"

Daphne's mouth dropped open as she glanced down at the bar to see a shot glass filled with the amber liquid. "I – Professor, we're not of age –"

"It certainly did not stop you when you went behind the Quidditch pitch in fourth year," Dumbledore replied, his smile never wavering. "Mr. Filch reckons he found two or three empty bottles back there – quite impressive, at your age."

The Headmaster picked up the glass and downed it with a smooth elegance that made it clear he tasted every droplet of the liquid. "It is truly some of Ogden's finest, very good indeed. In any case, I must be off. Good evening to you both." And without another word, Dumbledore turned and vanished into the crowd, leaving as quickly as he had arrived.

"What," Malfoy said through clenched teeth, "the hell was – what are you doing?"

Daphne didn't answer as she set her empty shot glass down with a sputtering cough. "It's good," she said, taking a deep breath. "But how the hell did he know it was us?"

"It's Dumbledore," Malfoy replied caustically, dumping the shot into the trash can next to the bar. "I've lost my ability to be surprised by that man."

* * *

Willard Parkinson had only had a few specific requirements when he had hired the small platoon of serving maids for the reception: they had to be female, they had to be blonde, and their uniforms had to skirt the edge of professional and tasteless.

It was an easy assignment – the right charms could guarantee the latter two requirements without significant issue, and with Stabilizing Charms built into their heels and bracelets and a Calming Charm woven into their chokers, the maids were quiet, professional, and completely docile, never spilling a hint of alcohol or showing a sign of concern at any boorish behaviour from their patrons.

Most were assembled now in the kitchen, where the house-elves were still working, preparing the next course. The activity was loud and frenetic, filled with the banging of pots and cutlery even as the maids were quietly carrying out their tasks.

And thus nobody saw one slip away.

The narrow maintenance hallway was the opposite of the reception hall – dim, dingy, and reeking of rotten food, it was thoroughly unpleasant. It was also completely abandoned, and that's why she had chosen it.

Her fingers slipped to the lacy choker – which, if anyone had bothered to glance, lacked a certain tell-tale sparkle of enchantment.

"Come on, Harry," she muttered under her breath. "We don't have much time…"

The door cracked open, and the maid's wand was in her hand instantly as a second blonde maid slipped out, her eyes warily scanning the hallway as she shut and locked the door behind them.

"Took you long enough," the first maid said with a smirk, her hair quickly changing to bubblegum pink. "What took you so long?"

"Some old twit decided he wanted to squeeze my ass," the second maid retorted sharply, "and it took all of the Calming Charm I didn't have not to hex him in the face."

"Comes with being a proper lady, Harry," the first maid said with a wink. "The simulacrum held up? Nobody recognized you?"

Harry Potter snorted as he shoved a lock of blonde hair out of his face – even despite his familiarity with the simulacrum he was possessing, it still found it unnerving to look in the mirror and see a beautiful blonde woman instead of a bestacled black-haired teenager. Particularly when said blonde woman was squeezed into a provocatively tight maid's outfit

"You wouldn't know the first thing about being a 'proper lady', Tonks," he said wearily. "And no, nobody recognized that one of the blonde bimbos serving them happens to be Clarissa Desdame, esteemed attorney-at-law. You sure we shouldn't change?"

"If they're running board meetings upstairs, nobody will suspect a pair of maids," Tonks said bracingly. "As long as we hide in plain sight and don't draw attention, nobody will notice a thing."

"Are you at least ditching the heels –"

"They have a Stabilizing Charm," Tonks said, unable to keep the amusement out of her voice. "If I had had these, I probably would have passed Stealth and Tracking in my sleep. You might have to pry these off my cold dead feet, Harry."

"Well, if we start with those, I might be compelled to take _other_ things off too," Harry replied with a wink.

Tonks shook her head. "It's getting way too easy for you to come up with those."

"And we all know whose fault _that_ is."

Tonks rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I know – I've created a monster." She took a deep breath. "Okay, first stage is done – now, while everyone's occupied with dinner –"

"We go upstairs to the offices," Harry said, drawing his wand, a determined smile on his face, "and I collect _everything_ that used to be mine."


	3. Chapter 2: Stealing Dessert

_**Author's Notes: hmm, not much of a response to the last chapter. A bit disappointing, but thanks to those who did reply and leave reviews, they're always appreciated. In any case, here's the second chapter, where some loose ends are tied up and some plots begin to take shape. As always, read, review, bitch, criticize, and enjoy!**_

**_-Silens Cursor_**

_Chapter 2: Stealing Dessert_

The corridors of the International Wizard Banking Consortium were far different than the crowded reception hall they had left. Instead of walls of shimmering marble and bronze, lit by glittering chandeliers, these corridors were dimly lit, with high walls of dark granite lit only by muted, shaded candles.

"Like a rat trapped in a maze," Harry muttered, turning his wand over in his gloved hand. "Tonks, are you sure you can't map this out?"

"I only had a map of the Ministry because I worked there, and only because I'm an Auror," Tonks replied nervously, carefully scanning the narrow hallway. "And even with that, it still wasn't complete. But here… I think this might be the hallway with the main lifts, and that means we can't be far from a maintenance shaft."

"Tonks, the way we're dressed, nobody will suspect –"

"Better safe than sorry, Harry," Tonks said apologetically, taking another glance down the empty hallway. "Okay, I think that door at the end past the candle is our shaft door. I'll head out first, you follow ten steps behind. Remember, we're supposed to be under Calming Charms – if someone sees us, they're expecting us to be vacant-eyed and docile."

"Because, you know, that's me without a doubt," Harry said, his hand tightening on his wand. "Okay… _go_."

Tonks' hair immediately went blonde, and she began walking slowly towards the shaft. Harry couldn't help but notice that she cut a gorgeous silhouette in the tight maid's uniform…

_Focus, Harry_. _Not the time. But then again, _he thought as he glanced down at his simulacrum's own ample chest, _she's not the only one_.

He doubted he'd ever get used to simulamancy completely. It was magic that Tonks and Harry had found practically by accident (although the more Harry thought about it, the more he found it awfully coincidental that all the simulamancy books were conveniently accessible in the Hogwarts library), magic that when executed correctly, gave Harry the ability to possess a specially enchanted corpse, a simulacrum. A perfect, impenetrable, undetectable disguise – it was no surprise that the Ministry shut down the original experiments as soon as they had discovered them.

And Harry couldn't exactly blame them either. Simulamancy was fiendishly complex, heavily restricted, and incredibly dangerous to get wrong. He and Tonks had gotten very, _very_ lucky to get it to work as many times as they had, and even then there had been… difficulties. He shivered despite himself as he began following Tonks at a distance, his mind flickering back to the flames and the screaming and the tears coursing down Tonks' face in the Gringotts vault as her hair went black and her eyes went emerald-green…

_It's over_, he thought sternly to himself. _The charm screwing with her mind is gone, and from the feel of things, we still have great chemistry. Things can work out – I've given her the space and time she needed, and now I just need to play things slow._

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the translucent threads, visible only to him, that tied him to his simulacrums. One was burnished gold, the second was tarnished silver, and the last was milky white. He couldn't help but wince slightly as he thought about that one. _That's one simulacrum it'd be better for _everyone_ that I don't touch…_

They reached the door and Tonks' wand was out in a second.

"Don't bother," Harry said quickly, reaching into one of the pockets of the maid outfit's apron and pulling free a small penknife. "It served me well enough in Gringotts, and I bet the IWBC doesn't have nearly the security that place does yet…"

He slid the blade between the door and the wall and heard a satisfying click. He quickly slid back the surprisingly lightweight door –

To reveal an empty, gaping shaft, with long cables stretching both upwards and downwards into the blackness.

"_Accio lift_," Tonks murmured, and a few seconds later the lift cage – a cast-iron, surprisingly stable platform – slid up on well-oiled pulleys to their level. "Come on, and shut the door behind you."

"How are we going to get this thing moving?" Harry asked, shoving the door closed. "_Lumos_." Light began spilling from the tip of his wand, illuminating the cramped, dingy shaft. "I mean, there's not even any buttons."

"Probably to prevent people like us using this shaft to access restricted areas," Tonks said with a frown, examining the pulley mechanism at the top of the cage. "I've got a few spells that might get us to where we need to go, but from the looks of the shaft, we've got a lot of floors to search." She blew out a frustrated breath. "And any spell I cast on this cable is going to have to be pretty subtle – don't want to set off any alarms."

Harry took a deep breath and immediately regretted it as the air stank of soot and grease. "Okay, let's get started then."

Tonks prodded the pulley and whispered a few words. A few sparks sputtered from her wand, and with a muffled whir, the cage began rising very, very slowly.

"Hopefully this ledger we need is only the second or third floor." Harry scowled. "You'd think there'd be a building directory or something."

"Well, there is a receptionist's desk, I think that's what they use instead," Tonks replied, scanning the shaft critically. "And since it wouldn't be the best idea to ask for directions, we'll just have to be patient and do this the hard way. As for no directory… eh, considering that one of the board members is Vesparian Welmon…"

Harry snorted. "Okay, I see your point – he's probably paranoid, considering the whole break-in we did at Gringotts last year." He shook his head, a bemused grin on his face. "If that's true… man, talk about ironic."

"True enough," Tonks said, her eyes still fixed on the pulley slowly rotating above them. "I think this is slow enough not to trip any alarms – but then again, we _look_ like maids, we might be able to risk going a little faster..."

"They might not have even spelled the shaft, Tonks," Harry said, his brow furrowing as he eyed the door above them slowly drawing closer. "I mean, the sliding doors are all locked, and it's only thanks to the knife Sirius gave me we got in."

"Wish _that_ came standard-issue," Tonks muttered. "When Sirius gets back from Transylvania, remind me to ask where he got it."

Despite himself, Harry felt uneasy whenever he thought of his godfather's absence. After the attack on _The Daily Prophet _offices, Sirius and Lupin had fled the country, reportedly on Dumbledore's orders. _And considering asking the vampires politely to give up ancient blood magic secrets probably won't work… still, they've been gone three months now…_

He felt a gloved hand on his shoulder, and he glanced up, to see Tonks' sympathetic expression.

"I miss them."

"So do I, Harry," Tonks replied with a sigh. "Auror Intelligence doesn't have anything good to say about Eastern Europe right now. Between the Muggle world and the magical world, Sirius and Remus are flying right into chaos."

"Well, if there's anyone equipped to handle it, it's them," Harry replied, taking a steadying breath as the door rose closer. "Okay, Malfoy ledger – if Lucius moved the gold –"

"It'll need to be recorded there," Tonks confirmed, lighting her own wand as the lift began to slow. "From what our source told us, every movement of gold is magically verified in that ledger, so if we write in a quick transaction reversal…"

"We'll be able to unlock the vault and get my gold back," Harry finished. "You know we're going to have to do all of this manually when we go down to the vault, and I'm not sure we'll be able to carry all of it –"

"And that's why Dumbledore convinced the goblins to haul in a Grandmother Niffler to cart it out," Tonks said tersely. "Not really much convincing required, really – the goblins still want to get even."

"And Dumbledore will be able to replicate the key?" Harry asked nervously.

"If he can't, the goblins will," Tonks replied, prodding the pulley and grinding the lift to a stop. "And even if that doesn't work – well, if every vault is keyed to a ledger, evidence of a transaction is bound to disable some of the protective enchantments until the withdrawal's complete. And then… well, Dumbledore's the best wizard on the planet, he'll think of something."

She glanced at Harry. "Ready?"

Harry pulled out the penknife and slid in in the crack between the door and the wall again. There was a click, and a hard shove revealed a dimly-lit, granite hallway.

"All right," Tonks breathed. "Let's get started."

* * *

"So you're returning to Hogwarts," Daphne continued coolly, "even despite all the rumours about what happened."

"You know, I could stand here all night and tell you how I had no direct involvement in Nott's scheme," Malfoy said curtly, "but why do I have the feeling you won't believe a word I say?"

"Because Malfoys are professional liars."

"If we were, we'd get paid," Malfoy said with a grimace, raising his glass to his cracked and split lips. "And you don't see me wringing out a single Knut, do you?"

"Then why are you here, then?" Daphne asked, changing the subject abruptly, hoping to catch him off-guard. "You're clearly not enjoying yourself, and if your strategy was to remain out-of-sight, I can't help but see a certain flaw in your plan. If it's politics, why aren't you socializing?"

"You don't need to be loud to be a political presence," Malfoy replied stiffly. "Since I'm the last Malfoy to carry on the name…"

"Disgraced though it may be."

"I don't need your sarcasm and snide remarks," Malfoy spat. "If I wanted that, I'd go back to Pansy."

Daphne glanced across the room, and sure enough, near the head table, she could spot the pug-nosed girl talking animatedly to a series of eager listeners. She wrinkled her nose with disgust – _insufferable cow…_

"You know, not that I'm interested," she said off-handedly, "or that I ever _will_ be interested –"

"You prefer sampling a different dessert," Malfoy said with an ugly smile. "I'm well aware."

"– But I think it's a good think you broke things off with Pansy," Daphne finished, throwing a glare at Malfoy.

"You think I could do better?"

"No, it's more that she deserves to do worse," Daphne replied, her tone laced with spite. "You didn't have to share a dormitory with her for five years."

"I thought you _liked_ sharing a dormitory with me."

Daphne whirled around quickly, wincing as she saw a pouting expression on Tracey's face. "I'm not talking about you, Tracey, I'm talking about Pansy."

Tracey sniffed. "Why? She's a bitch."

Malfoy coughed, and a few droplets of Firewhiskey dripped down his chin. He hurriedly wiped them away with a napkin and gave Tracey a short nod. "Miss Davis."

"Draco," Tracey said, and Daphne could tell that she was struggling to fight back a queasy look. "You, uh… you look… well?"

Malfoy's expression darkened. "Good enough word for it."

"Get over yourself, Malfoy," Daphne said with exasperation. "So you got a head start on the scarification you need to be an Auror – either embrace it to scare the living hell out of everyone or go to France and purchase the exotic cosmetic potions you'll need to fix it. Either way, I'm already bored of talking about it." She turned back to Tracey. "Does Dad need me?"

"No, but I thought you'd like to know that dessert's starting," Tracey replied, her smile growing. "Then again, your father isn't the only person who might 'want' you –"

"And when you say it like _that_, it sounds really gross," Daphne cut her off quickly, but still unable to stop a smile because of the horrified expression on Tracey's face. "Come on, let's have some dessert."

She leaned close, her lips close to Tracey's ear. "And then maybe afterwards, I'll show you some of the things you can do with dessert _without_ utensils…"

She could feel Tracey shiver with anticipation, and Daphne knew that their evening would be most entertaining indeed.

* * *

He was alone again.

He wasn't _complaining_, per se – on the contrary, he couldn't help but relish the fact that there were no irritants clambering for his ear or attention – but even as the pair of girls walked away, he couldn't help but feel a bit of longing for a simpler time…

"Good, they're gone."

The longing vanished in an instant – replaced by antipathy and disgust. "Nice to see you too, Blaise."

"Odd," Blaise Zabini said mockingly, "because you certainly don't seem _happy_ to see me –"

"I figured it would make a nicer greeting than 'go fuck yourself'," Draco replied harshly. "I'm in no mood to chat – although from that stupid smirk on your face, I think you are."

"You shouldn't condemn the smirk," Blaise said lazily as the bartender slid him a tumbler of expensive alcohol – far more expensive than the Firewhiskey Draco had been drinking. "After all, I picked it up from watching you."

"Are you here to gloat?"

"Yes, actually."

Draco didn't show any emotion at the comment – he knew _exactly_ what Blaise wanted to gloat about. "So, he is dead?"

Blaise tipped his hat in Draco's direction – a gesture that made Draco want to curse his smug face. "Might be difficult to tell – I can't seem to see him anywhere –"

"I get it," Draco replied coldly. "And before you even get there, I can appreciate the irony as well of our switched positions in the eyes of a certain _someone_ – in other words, you don't need to bring it up."

Blaise shrugged. "Things happen. What was the deal with Greengrass and Davis?"

"They had no desire to commiserate, if that's what you're inquiring about."

"That makes three of us." Blaise took a swig of the liquor. "I thought when Bellatrix put you back together, she took out the gland that makes you a cowardly little bitch."

"I refuse to apologize for self-preservation instincts," Draco said curtly, "just as you refuse to apologize for being an arrogant, misogynistic ass."

"I don't hate women," Blaise corrected, his eyes fixing on one of the maid's with sudden intensity. "That implies that I consider them beneath me."

"And you don't?"

"I consider many things beneath me, Draco," Blaise said calmly, finishing his liquor with a second swig. "Mudbloods, asslickers, idiots, and at the current moment, you. Do you even have a reason for being here?"

"Yes, actually," Draco replied stiffly. "And part of that job is to convey to _you_ a message."

"From who?"

Draco didn't answer, and Blaise immediately understood. "So you're his errand boy now?"

"Shut up and listen. I was approached by Dumbledore this evening, and he enquired about my enrolment status at Hogwarts, whether or not I'd return."

"And you said…"

"Of course I'm returning," Draco replied steadily, staring intently at Blaise, "and on _his_ orders, so are you."

Blaise stiffened. "Is there another – I saw what happened to Nott –"

"We are also _not_ to act," Draco continued intensely, setting his glass on the bar. "We're being sidelined, and that means we _must not interfere_. He has plans for Hogwarts again this year, and we _cannot_ be involved, for our own safety."

"And he told you all of this?" Blaise's eyes narrowed. "How? I thought –"

A bitter expression crossed Draco's face for a fraction of a second. "Guess the Malfoy family name still _does_ mean something, even if it's just to him."

"That's it?" Blaise pursued, his eyes glittering as he stepped closer. "That's _all_ of the message? That's the only reason why you're here?"

Draco's scarred face twisted into a thin smile. "Not quite. I'm here for the speech."

"_What_ speech?" Blaise's tone was sharp. "I wasn't told –"

"Because it wasn't your place to know yet," Draco said softly, his eyes tracing the crowd and landing on the Parkinson table, where a single seat was vacant. It had been vacant all throughout dinner, and any attempt to appropriate it had been warded off by harsh glares and harsher words.

"You might want to stay and watch, Blaise – it's not often you get to see the chessboard arranged at the start of a new game."

* * *

"Found it!"

"About time!" Tonks said, her eyes brightening with relief as she hurried to the ledger Harry placed on the table. "Four floors up – you might think Narcissa Malfoy is paranoid or something."

"After everything that happened with the Malfoy family last year," Harry said in a low voice, flipping open the ledger and scanning the page, "if I were her, I'd be paranoid too."

The lights in the room were dimmed – the offices had been closed for hours – but the crisp white pages of the ledger seemed to gleam underneath the hanging spotlight. Rows and columns, all precisely inked and perfectly balanced.

"I'm not specialist in Magical Finance," Harry said after a few minutes, "but you'd think that in _Malfoy's own ledger_ you'd see evidence of embezzlement."

"That's never been his style," Tonks replied with a frustrated scowl. "It never has been – why break the law when you can bend and twist it to do what you want? That's how he managed to empty your vault in the first place. Now, granted, you can't deny that stealing your blood from the settlement forms and the whole goblin fiasco was all that legal - but then again, neither is attempting to kill him."

Harry snorted. "Trust me, as much as I wanted Malfoy dead –"

"Which one, the son or the father? Because with the son, I seem to recall you shoving his face into a cauldron of acid –"

"And Professor Moody made sure I was punished for that, but I'm talking about Lucius," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "But the point was that I was never going to try and kill him. And even when we did fight, you can't deny that my spells were cast in self-defense."

"And because of your little self-defense act," Tonks replied wryly, "which may or may not have involved a flaming lash to Malfoy's testicles, he decided to exact revenge by collaborating with a Hit Wizard who I'd charitably describe as unhinged to steal every bit of gold you owned." She tapped on the ledger with a fingernail. "And from the looks of this, he probably got away with it."

"He nearly started a war with the goblins that resulted in _this building_ getting attacked, not to mention his manor getting sacked," Harry said tightly, "so even though it _is_ Malfoy, I'll call it even."

"And now you're choosing to steal from the Malfoys again."

"I'm just taking back what's mine," Harry retorted, flipping over a page and bending closer. "And all that means is finding that transaction record and… _aha_!" He jabbed down at the paper. "Right there, in November!"

"And you know it's yours because –"

"No note in the payee line, and in contrast to the rest of the ledger, no description of the transaction," Harry said triumphantly. He couldn't help but smile as he looked up at Tonks. "And besides, no Malfoy would ever conduct a transaction that involved Knuts – particularly not almost a _thousand_ of them."

"Point taken," Tonks conceded, but a smile was on her face as well. She pulled the desk drawer open and withdrew a quill. "Now just to write in a new withdrawal… hey, what the…"

Even as Tonks had begun to ink the figures, the ink had vanished, as if it was never there. She frowned and began writing again, but as if someone was sucking the ink right off the parchment, nothing she wrote remained for more than a second.

"Figures the Malfoys would enchant the ledger," Harry muttered, running a hand through his simulacrum's long blonde hair. "Do you think, I dunno, that you have be a Malfoy to write anything in here?"

"If you honestly think the Malfoys do their own accounting grunt work…" Tonks replied with a frown of her own, setting the quill back in the desk. "They have magic for that. Okay, let's think this through."

"Do you think we can break the enchantment?" Harry asked after a few seconds. "You're good at Arithmancy, and you managed to puzzle out simulamancy, you could probably find a way to break this."

"Yeah, but I don't how we'd replace it, and it would be just our luck if somebody noticed that someone's broken the enchantment," Tonks said tersely. "Maybe we're not using the right quill – maybe specific quills are charmed to the ledgers, and the only way to make alterations is with the right quill."

"That seems like a lot of work if someone wants to change an entry," Harry said sceptically.

"It'd force the person making the edit to go through an additional check, which would likely reduce errors," Tonks said, "and since the ledgers update themselves via magic anyways… plus it's a security advantage to protect the Malfoys from people –"

"- Like us," Harry said, taking a deep breath. "Okay, where can we find these quills?"

"For the Malfoy ledger, I'm guessing we need to go to the top floor," Tonks said heavily. "You know, by this point, I should just _expect_ complications."

* * *

Few people asked what was beneath the cobblestones of Diagon Alley. The majority of people didn't care – they simply assumed that like any ordinary street, the sewer gratings were evidence that a simple sewer main was underneath the narrow street.

Very few people knew that the grates had been enchanted to whisk away rainwater and waste the second they made contact, and even fewer people knew that tunnels did indeed exist beneath the street. A chaotic jumble of switchbacks, narrow passages, and accumulated filth, the few people that did know didn't want to go beneath the street to learn more.

Rubeus Hagrid didn't mind – after all, the smell wasn't _that_ bad.

He pulled his overcoat a little tighter as he hefted his lantern. "There," he said shortly, "I think that might be what yer lookin' for."

The smartly dressed goblin, holding a kerchief to his nose, glanced up at the half-giant standing next to him. "How on earth are you sure?"

"Signs of the blast," Hagrid said, easing himself a bit closer to the heap of rubble blocking the passage. "Look at the scorches. And 'sides, when Malfoy came down 'ere with his Grandmother Nifflers, he wanted a direct route from his bank into Gringotts."

"That didn't work out so well for him," the goblin said icily, his long fingers curling into a white-knuckled fist. "Gringotts doesn't tolerate such intrusions."

"Won't get no arguments from me there," Hagrid muttered, stepping away from the wall and pulling a pair of goggles over his eyes. "What are yeh – ah, yer blowin' it open?"

"Yes," the goblin said curtly. "I recommend you stand back – this may get _loud_."

* * *

The halls of the top floor seemed, at first glance, very different than the dark stone halls below. Instead of dark shades of granite, creamy white marble and elegant silver trim accoutred the hallway. It was also the only place Harry spotted any wood finishings at all – all of them very light and polished to a mirror shine.

"Oh, I don't like this," Tonks muttered under her breath. "I really don't like this…"

She glanced back at Harry. "Look, I don't want to put both of us at risk, and worst comes to worst, I'm a Metamorphmagus, and your simulacrum has an identity outside of your outfit we can't compromise."

"Are you suggesting – you're not leaving me behind!"

"Harry, trust me – just give me a few minutes, I'll find the quill and we'll get out of here –"

"You're under the presumption that you're leaving me behind!" Harry whispered furiously. "I'll be in danger regardless if I'm with you or not!"

Tonks pursed her lips, and Harry could tell she was thinking hard. "Okay," she began slowly after a few seconds, "do some light reconnaissance around the floor. Don't go in any room, keep out of sight, and if you run into someone –"

"Don't worry," Harry said, reaching into the small purse – and pulling free a long, silvery cloak. "I've got other options. Dumbledore enchanted the purse with an Undetectable Extension Charm before we left."

"Why didn't you tell me you had that –"

"We didn't need it before now, we were hiding in plain sight," Harry reasoned. "I'll be fine, don't worry."

Tonks exhaled heavily, but immediately slipped into the shadows, casting a quick Disillusionment Charm on herself as she began slipping down the hallway. Harry waited until he couldn't hear footsteps, and then flung the Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders.

Unlike the floors they had explored below, this floor wasn't a maze. A central block of lifts, surrounded by a spoked ring of corridors. Every corridor was lined with paintings in vibrant colours – although, strangely, none of them were anything but abstract. The few sculptures scattered on silvery pedestals weren't defined either – amorphous blobs and contorted silhouettes, few even vaguely humanoid.

It didn't feel much like a wizarding building, certainly not like Gringotts or Hogwarts – it felt a bit like a high-end Muggle office like Harry had seen on slick American crime dramas Uncle Vernon used to watch (he had always been loud to trumpet the successes of wealthy protagonists to anyone who'd listen). But even that wasn't quite right, as Harry spotted a sculpture that was clearly hovering in _mid-air_. It was as if some rich wizard had decided to adapt the idea and changed it to fit a pseudo-modern ideal of opulence…

He paused in mid-step – he heard voices. Men's voices, a number of them, behind a nearby set of oaken double doors. Voices he could swear that he recognized…

_That might be the boardroom,_ he thought, taking a deep breath. _And it sounds like they're having a meeting…_

The rhythmic tapping of heels almost caught him off guard, and he clapped his hand over his mouth as he saw a maid approaching the doors, a platter of expensive drinks in her hand. She was heading towards the boardroom.

The idea was bad, and he knew it was bad the second it jumped into his head, but he knew he might never get another shot at something like this…

"_Wingardium Leviosa._"

For a few seconds, the maid didn't notice as the platter was lifted from her fingers. Still under the cloak, Harry quickly moved closer to slip his hand beneath the platter as the maid turned –

"_Stupefy_."

The blast of red light was louder than Harry was hoping for, but the raised voices in the conference room didn't abate as the maid's eyes rolled back and she began to topple –

He caught her with one hand, the tray of drinks in the other, the Stabilizing Charm on his hands adding strength as he gently guided her to the ground. The Invisibility Cloak came off next, gently covering the Stunned maid, concealing her completely.

Harry took a deep breath and tried to calm his frayed nerves. He'd been able to fool the wizards in the dining hall far below, he could handle this…

He looked down at the platter – seven drinks, all placed strategically to match the positions around the table, as with downstairs. Easy enough…

_This is a really, really bad idea…_

But Harry knew a chance like this might never come again. He straightened his lacy headband, and approached the double doors.

* * *

"All I'm saying is that if you want to _convince_ the Department of Magical Finance that IWBC isn't going to usurp their role," Peter O'Sanden said loudly, "you might want to consider a candidate for the board from that Department –"

"We already have a member from that Department," Willard Parkinson said coolly, gently massaging his chin, "and I'm of the opinion that one is more than enough."

"You continue to denigrate my department –"

"Peter, I'm not interested in bringing IWBC in line with the taxation work you're trying to foist upon us," Parkinson said sharply. "I'm looking for IWBC to start making _investments_ – you know, contributing gold to projects that produce a rate of return –"

"It's never been done in the wizarding world," Narcissa Black said sceptically, drumming her long fingernails on the table. "And I'm sure there's a reason why Gringotts doesn't do it."

"Because the goblins are miserly wretches that hate to see gold in the hands of decent witches and wizards, let alone financing their businesses," Vesparian Welmon said dismissively. "And there _is_ precedent – in 1864, Gringotts made a series of loans to finance certain –"

"Those transactions nowadays," O'Sanden growled, his face beginning to redden, "are handled through the Ministry – more specifically, the Department of Magical Finance. My department!"

"And with Scrimgeour continuing to breathe down your neck, that's going _so_ well," Welmon retorted. "Tell me again how _your_ intern, that French tart from Beauxbatons, managed to get herself deported?"

"The Delacour incident is immaterial," Parkinson said slowly, not taking his eyes off O'Sanden. "No, our mutual friend's issue that's raising such uncharacteristic anger is that the Department of Magical Finance is slowly losing its relevance in a world where a _bank_ can handle those duties. Financing should never be the role of the government, Peter, and you know it."

"We only just calmed the goblins," O'Sanden bellowed, "and now you want to do _this_? You'll start another rebellion!"

"The goblins have no justification to interfere," Marshall Yarone, a fat bespectacled man with thinning hair and misshapen fingers, mumbled. "Besides, they don't have the infrastructure –"

"I don't think the goblins will care about infrastructure, they'll see this as undercutting their power structure –"

"And if they attempt to do anything," Charles Baddock – Parkinson's partner, and co-owner of Parkinson & Baddock – said curtly, "the Ministry and International Confederation of Warlocks will come down with the full force of the law for breaking the new treaty. I don't understand _why_ Dumbledore decided to broker a treaty –"

"He didn't do it for us, he did it to secure peace," Parkinson said smoothly, "and the fact that peace benefits all of us – including you, Peter – is what we're looking to capitalize on."

The door of the boardroom cracked open, and a maid calmly walked in, a tray of drinks in her hand. _About time, _Parkinson thought acridly, _what took her so damn long?_

"Finally," Welmon muttered, seizing his drink the second it was set down.

"Drink something, Peter, this rage isn't like you," Parkinson advised, keeping the mask of sympathy firmly on his face. "Besides, the losses of Magical Finance are the gains of IWBC – financing is moved to us, we gain more market share, and we all profit, and I will be happy to drink to driving those miserable goblins out of business."

"And that's why you want to bring Greengrass onto the board to replace Cuffe," O'Sanden said after a few seconds, completely ignoring the maid setting the drink on the table in front of him.

"He's a man with skills that can only benefit us," Parkinson said soothingly, "and his experience with business will ensure a return on our generous investment."

"This still sounds awfully like business conducted in a very _Muggle_ way," Narcissa said suddenly, sending Parkinson a probing glare as she accepted her drink. "Did your little trip to the colonies pollute your mind even more?"

Parkinson gritted his teeth. "That had nothing to do with…"

His voice trailed off as he stared at the maid. Something looked familiar about her – very familiar, but he couldn't quite place it –

"Maid!"

The woman paused, and turned towards the table. Her gaze was properly downcast, and her long blonde hair hung gently around her face, but something seemed familiar about that face…

"State your name," Parkinson ordered.

The maid blinked. "Clare," she said quietly. Her tone was muted, her voice trembling – she sounded terrified.

Parkinson frowned. The voice and posture didn't match the hazy mental image, and the outfit didn't either. _I'm reminded of the meeting of the Confederation at Bonacccord Hall, but… it certainly looks like Clarissa Desdame, but that woman was strident and a right bitch, and nothing's been heard of that lie of a firm for months…_

His lips curled into a sneer. "My drink, _Clare_."

The maid wordlessly placed the drink on the table, and Parkinson was tempted to swat it onto the floor, just so she would have to get him another. _If it is her, she's fallen far and fast – but it would be in bad taste to gloat… However, a good Slavery Enchantment would make for some rich catharsis –_

"Parkinson, are you going to pester the servant girl or put forward your proposal for Greengrass?" Narcissa crossed her arms over her chest. "Maid, get out."

To her credit, the maid left the room with some poise and dignity. _Must be the Calming Charm at work_, Parkinson thought to himself. _Shame, I would have liked to see her squirm._

"I understand your concerns, Peter," he said calmly. "Yours too, Narcissa. These are troubled times – but whenever I look at the International Wizard Banking Consortium, I see potential we can exercise." He slammed his palm onto the table. "We can become the most powerful institution in England, if not the wizarding world. Greengrass is the first step – and as an innovative, creative, powerful mind with the backing of an old family, we can't ask for a better candidate. All in favour?"

To his satisfaction, they all murmured assent. Even O'Sanden, as his even temper coaxed him back to calmness. Even Narcissa, who was still watching Parkinson with an appraising eye.

Parkinson raised his glass. "To Paulus Greengrass – the newest member of the board for the International Wizard Banking Consortium. Let's finish here, and head downstairs to give him the news. I'll deliver the speech."

There were a few moments of protest, but Parkinson silenced them with a stare. "Trust me, you'll _all_ want me to say this."

* * *

"Harry," Tonks began with a measured tone, "I want to you know that I like you and I respect you."

"Thank you," Harry said lightly, as they stepped off the lift and into the darkened hallway.

"But that still doesn't make what you did any less _fucking stupid_!" Tonks kept her voice a whisper, but it was a loud furious whisper nonetheless. "What the hell were you thinking – Parkinson's on the board, he could have recognized you!"

"If he did, he didn't care," Harry said indifferently, opening the door to the room where Malfoy's ledger was stored. "Besides, we're in, we're out, and I managed to Obliviate the other maid so that she wouldn't remember a thing."

"Who taught you Obliviation?"

"Dumbledore's idea," Harry said, pulling the ledger from the shelf. "He figured I should learn it – the quill?"

"Yes, here," Tonks said irritably, shoving the feather into Harry's hand. "And yes, I'm thankful you covered your tracks –"

"Hiding in plain sight, like we planned –"

" – But that was reckless," Tonks finished, shifting her choker uneasily. "Really reckless. Seven on one, you wouldn't have stood a chance, and if Parkinson is actually a Death Eater, he could have called Voldemort in a second. What was your plan?"

"I just…" Harry let out an exasperated sigh. "Look, it was just an idea to get some information we could use. The IWBC board was talking about 'financing', whatever that is, and they were talking about some guy named Greengrass –"

"Paulus Greengrass?"

"Probably," Harry said. "He's the newest board member, or at least Parkinson really wanted him to be. You know much about him?"

"Not a lot, but Dumbledore probably does," Tonks said contemplatively. "You make the correction to the ledger?"

Harry took a deep breath and scribbled the next transaction. This time, the ink stayed on the parchment, and he let out a relieved sigh. "Done – what should I put in the description line?"

"Anything," Tonks replied dismissively. "I mean, the ledgers update magically, I doubt anyone's going to look."

Harry set his quill to the parchment as Tonks turned away –

And then his hand shifted, his fingers numbing as the quill skittered in his hand, scrawling new words – _reckless equals just desserts –_

"Harry?"

"Done," he said quickly, closing the ledger. "Now what should we do with the – where did it go?"

Tonks grinned. "That's magic for you – it probably reappeared in its case upstairs. Now come on, Hagrid's waiting for us."

"Right," Harry murmured, unable to get the image of the scrawled words out of his mind, words that he didn't consciously write.

Words written by _another_.

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, the board of the International Wizard Banking Consortium has come to a consensus." Willard Parkinson's voice was loud and clear from the charmed podium. "And we would like to welcome, to our board of directors… Paulus Greengrass!"

There was an explosion of clapping, and Daphne couldn't help but let out a cheer as her father rose to his feet, a big smile on his face as he waved to the seated crowd around him.

"Together with my partner Charles Baddock, the Head of the Department of Magical Finance Peter O'Sanden, Marshall Yarone and Vesparian Welmon, both formerly of Gringotts employ, and Narcissa Black, wife of our former founder, I look forward to a successful year for the International Wizard Banking Consortium," Parkinson continued, his smile growing, "and a year of expanding prosperity in wizarding finance!"

The clapping was even louder this time, and this time there were a few shouts of approval interspersed throughout the crowd. Despite her suspicion of Willard Parkinson – him being related to Pansy and all – even she could admit that his greying roots, his salt-and-pepper beard, his startling handsomeness, and his natural charisma, gave him a surprising amount of presence and distinction. _Such a shame Pansy never inherited such traits_, she thought snidely. _Oh well_.

Parkinson raised a hand for quiet, and the room immediately hushed, waiting for the next words.

"About a month ago, I took a trip. Not around our fair nation – in travelling with Parkinson & Baddock, I've seen all of it – but to a place few in our country visit." His smile faded. "I visited our former colonies across the ocean. I visited what the Muggles deem 'The United States of America'."

He sighed. "The title already seemed like a lie when I looked upon the Muggles that lived there, but the wizarding population of America is divided even further. Their central Ministry can politely be described as a joke, locked in petty infighting, and lacking any ability to police the divided cultures across their country. The Salem Witches' Institute remains an esteemed magical academy, but it is a lonely island of traditional civilization. Witches and wizards of America have refused to come together, choosing instead to live amongst Muggle culture." Parkinson's lip curled with disdain. "Some wizards even choose to flaunt the Statute of Secrecy in order to earn a decent living wage, and without the ability to effectively police wizarding society, they get away with it. It is _disgraceful_.

"But then I returned to our country –" He paused for a smattering of applause. "And I couldn't help but notice that despite ourselves, _the same thing is starting to occur here_."

Daphne's eyes widened – and it was clear from the shocked stares and angry outbursts, she wasn't the only one in the crowd that was surprised.

"Instead of a wizarding world divided by culture and forced out of necessity to mingle with Muggles, I see our culture trapped in the grip of _fear_." Parkinson's hand clenched into a fist. "Fear of change, fear of growth, fear of evolution. A fear that we will lose our history, a fear that we will lose what it means to be a wizard or a witch in our changing world. It's a fear that affects all of us, and with that fear has come despair, because we don't see a change. Like the American wizard who feels he has no choice but use his magic to advance a Muggle career because it is the only 'edge' he feels he possesses, we have lost trust and faith in our government, in our Ministry of Magic."

Parkinson's eyes hardened. "And why shouldn't he? Last year, the Ministry was attacked twice, and Hit Wizards and Aurors died. Even more died when Azkaban was attacked. Our world has been besieged, and when we have come to our Ministry for protection, they have come up wanting. It is an unalienable right of witches and wizards to be safe under their nation's government – but most of us do not feel safe. And worst of all, none of us have a plan to change things. We don't have answers.

"And yes, I can understand desperation, for when one looks upon the Muggle world, wracked with constant troubles though it may be, one cannot help but see a certain mundane stability." Parkinson sighed. "They have peace – we all want that."

His fist unclenched, and he took a deep breath. "But… but maybe there's another way. A way that means we do not have to compromise our history and our culture. A way that can lead us not to the Muggle world, but along a new path, a unique path. A path forged by the innovation of witches and wizards, the growth and evolution of our culture in a divergent path from that of Muggles. _We can do better_. _We can be better._"

Parkinson smiled, and despite herself, Daphne felt a little thrill of anticipation.

"So when I look out at this crowd, I see untapped potential, potential that the International Wizard Banking Consortium wants to finance and support. I see creative minds, some tempered by age and wisdom, others filled with the exuberance and energy of youth. But I see more than just that." Parkinson looked skyward, towards the ceiling. "I see a shift in the cultural paradigm of our world, so we no longer have to be ruled by fear of shadows and fear of Muggles and fear of the possibility of decay. I see a change, a change that we can _believe_ in."

There was applause at that, but Parkinson wasn't done. "And I want to facilitate that change. The heroes of yesteryear, the ones that protected us from the shadow are gone – now, new heroes must be found. And while I will never claim such heroism, I will stop at _nothing_ to enable it.

"And that is why tonight," Parkinson continued, his voice getting louder and filled with righteous triumph, "my campaign begins. Ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards, I ask your support in helping to change the wizarding world, because I am running for _Minister for Magic_!"

* * *

The applause was thunderous, and the cheering got even louder. Nobody saw, at an outlying bar, the horrified expression on Rita Skeeter's face.

She couldn't quite believe it – _how dare he, after what he –_

She wasn't going to continue down that mental path – the images from _that_ night were seared into her mind. The image of a scarred, craggy-faced Hit Wizard appeared in her mind – a wizard who had fought and sacrificed so much. But not for this.

She spun to look at Rufus Scrimgeour. There was no anger in his expression – or fear, or sadness, or anticipation, or much of anything at all.

"Scrimgeour," she whispered, her voice barely audible as she pulled the Quick Quotes Quill from her bag, "do you – do you have anything to add?"

The glass of water in Scrimgeour's hand broke with an audible crack.


	4. Chapter 3: Desdame & Vuneren

_**Author's Notes: thanks for the reviews, folks. I figured I might as well post the next chapter - suffice it to say, I think I might surprise some people with elements here, which is always a plus. So, as always, read, review, bitch, criticize, and enjoy!**_

_****Chapter 3: Desdame & Vuneren_

"You know, I'm so happy we're finally getting a chance to talk."

Daphne could hardly prevent herself from rolling her eyes. _You're doing this for Dad, you're doing this for Dad… _"Okay, sure."

It wasn't sarcastic, but it did sound dubious, and Pansy Parkinson's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "I'm sorry, are you _not_ happy? I would have thought that you would be thrilled for your father –"

"I'm happy about that," Daphne interrupted, dropping into the plush leather chair, not meeting Pansy's eyes. Pansy had requested – nay, _demanded_ – that she and Daphne have a private conversation in a side room, which despite the more subdued colours was just as ornate as the larger reception hall. Fine leather furniture, polished marble floors, silver and bronze-lined mirrors on every wall, all sealed with a silence that Daphne was sure was magical.

_And I bet that's not the only thing magic's enhancing here_, Daphne thought to herself as she casually raked Pansy with her stare. Her sleeveless velvet dress robes were the colour of freshly picked olives, with a high collar and subtle beading emphasizing every curve. Curves defined tightly by fabric clinging tightly from her throat to her knees, where it fanned into a fountain of ripples – and by the beauty spells Daphne knew the other girl had to have used to squeeze herself into the dress. The beauty spells that kept her hair piled high on her head without pins and reshaped her face from plain-at-best to absolutely striking, de-emphasizing the pug-like nose that usually marred her features. _If I didn't know her, I'd probably fuck her given the chance, _Daphne thought fairly. _But then again, I've seen her without the charms._

Daphne knew better than to say anything – after all, she could feel the supple embrace of magic in her own dress robes, gently emphasizing the right parts of her figure – but unlike Pansy, she never _needed_ them. She suspected that Pansy loathed her for it – and in this case, she relished every second of that hatred.

But Pansy looked good tonight, and the smug directness in her stare said that she knew it.

"You don't _sound_ happy."

"No, really, I am," Daphne said, finally meeting Pansy's dark eyes. "I'm sure he's going to enjoy it."

It was a lie, but not a complete one. In truth, Daphne hadn't quite decided how she felt about her father's new position. It _sounded_ appealing, but she had been in Slytherin long enough to know that those sorts of perks were never completely what they seemed. And though she knew her father was smart enough to avoid trouble, she also knew that his odd flights of fancy could prove distracting – or become a place where he could be manipulated. _If he's just there to provide some sanity and balance, an outside perspective, maybe they'll just leave him alone…_

"I'm not talking about your father."

"Excuse me?"

"I _said_," Pansy repeated, annoyance creeping into her voice, "I'm talking about _you_. Being the daughter of a board member on one of the most powerful institutions in wizarding England –"

"It's not even close to that yet –"

"– And if your father manages to solidify the wizarding car industry outside of sanctioned Ministry enchantment," Pansy continued, completely ignoring Daphne, "well, it could be something huge, something revolutionary. With the ban on flying carpets, there's a real need for a multi-person magical vehicle."

"If I remember correctly, the last time someone outside the Ministry had an enchanted car, they crashed it into the Whomping Willow. Now, to be fair, Potter and Weasley were both twits, but there are still –"

"So you're saying you don't think your father can do it?" Pansy said quickly, her eyes lighting up.

"_No_, what I was saying is that there will be hurdles to get over," Daphne replied evenly, leaning back in her chair and pushing a lock of hair out of her face. "The wizarding car industry isn't going to start itself overnight."

For a second, there seemed to be disappointment, but that flicker passed quickly as Pansy smoothed her dress and smiled broadly. "But still, the daughter of a mogul, of a board member of the most powerful bank in the world –"

"Once again, the IWBC isn't anywhere close yet," Daphne said harshly, "because it's not like the goblins are going to roll over –"

"–It's a rush, I don't what else I can say," Pansy said with a contented sigh.

This time, Daphne did roll her eyes. Of _course_ Pansy was going to bring the conversation back to herself. But it was no issue – Daphne knew how to play this game.

"I mean, a car mogul is one thing," Pansy continued, her gaze carefully on Daphne, who was now pointedly studying the ceiling, "but the daughter of the Minister himself –"

"He's not Minister yet."

"He will be," Pansy replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. "My father's been planning for this for a long, long time, and with his plans… no, Scrimgeour doesn't stand a chance against my father, and he knows it. Mark my words, my father will be Minister by the end of this, you can count on it."

_And you'll be more insufferable than ever, _Daphne thought spitefully, _although I'm not quite sure how it's possible_._ So unless you're going to keep rubbing this in my face despite my lack of giving a shit, I'm not sure what you –_

"But I'm not here to talk about my father's campaign," Pansy continued, tapping her fingers on the arm of the sofa lazily. "That's top-secret, you know, he doesn't want to run into any problems." She leaned forward and stared intently at Daphne, her eyes glittering. "No, I want to talk about _us_."

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware 'we' were a thing," Daphne said, unable to keep the mocking edge out of her voice.

Pansy wrinkled her nose. "Are you – no, I'm talking about burying the hatchet, Greengrass. Starting fresh. We're both heiresses to huge fortunes and power if everything goes our way –"

"Big if."

"– And I'd like to have somebody close to my level to rely on. I mean, don't get me wrong, Millicent is competent, but she's a lot like Crabbe and Goyle were for Draco." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "And of all the girls who became carpet-munchers, she would have been my first pick."

Daphne fought back her urge to smack Pansy in the face, but she kept a deceptively sweet grin on her face. "Pansy, if you're looking for someone close to your level…"

"And frankly, I'd like to get back to the way things were," Pansy continued, blithely ignoring the snide insult in Daphne's tone. "You know, back in fourth year, when we had our group and things were easy. Those were great times, don't you miss them?"

It would have been easy for Daphne to snap off something sarcastic to that question, but she caught herself – because even despite the generally insufferable company, fourth year hadn't been bad. _Sneaking behind the Quidditch bleachers, the group of us, with the most expensive bottles of Firewhiskey we could get, listening to the latest junk on the wireless and laughing at Potter and the rest of the Gryffindor twits… catch me at the right moment, and I might even call it fun and call them friends…_

"I miss it," Pansy said longingly, leaning back on the sofa and snagging her wine glass from the nearby table. "But then something happened."

"Yeah, Blaise and Draco did something that caused them to leave the school, and Nott got himself killed," Daphne replied curtly. "And are you _still_ angry about Draco dumping –"

"He did not –" Pansy stopped herself in mid-outburst, but it was enough for Daphne. But the other girl collected herself quickly. "Draco and I… we were just in different places in the relationship."

_Yeah, you were in denial that the 'relationship' was hardly worth two shits, and he never had the balls to admit he fucked you, _Daphne thought, relishing the irony, _but sure, _your_ explanation works too._

"And besides, have you seen his face?" Pansy affected a shudder. "I mean, he's barely recognizable, and certainly not the kind of face I'd want showing up in wedding pictures. And considering what I heard about his family's misfortunes, between the goblins and the acid escapade and his rumoured connections to the Dark Lord…"

"And here I thought that last part was a good thing."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Pansy said stiffly with indignation. "I would never – my father would hardly deign to support the mad whims of an infamous terrorist –"

_No, he'll just defend them in court, _Daphne thought snidely, _but go ahead, keep lying – it amuses me._

"Regardless, with my father's campaign taking shape, such rumoured connections could prove disastrous if taken in the improper context," Pansy said with a grave nod. "And given that wretched whore Skeeter has taken over the _Daily Prophet,_ I wouldn't dare risk it."She shook her head sadly. "Not so much a good match anymore."

"Oh, I dunno," Daphne said with a hint of a smirk. "His head's deflated a bit, that's certainly a step in the right direction." _Now there'll only be half as much hot air in the room if you two are there…_

"Regardless, when my father wins the election, I will have plenty of suitors to choose from," Pansy continued, her eager anticipation plain. "I'll have to be careful, mind you – I can't make a daft decision like that brainless bint who calls herself my sister –"

"Wait, Miranda's your _sister_?" Daphne interrupted. That _couldn't_ be true – according to old stories, she had originally been promised to Antonin Dolohov in 1969! "But she's been married for years – hell, she almost looks as old as your father!"

"My father has aged with perfect grace," Pansy replied with a haughty smile. "In his seventies and he hardly looks a day over fifty. But my point is that I'll have plenty of men at my feet to choose from." She gave Daphne a very knowing look. "And if you play your pieces right, so will you."

_And now we've finally gotten there_. "I don't know what you're talking about," Daphne replied, "considering I'm taken."

Pansy sniffed. "Ah, right – look, Daphne, trifling with the half-blood –"

"Her name," Daphne growled, "is Tracey."

"Whatever – my point is that it's not constructive for your future in high pureblood society –"

"I don't see why not," Daphne said bluntly, "considering off the top of my head I can quote a dozen or more cases of accepted witch couples that were historically prestigious _and_ powerful."

Pansy gave Daphne a patient smile. "I can understand your obstinate nature here, but you have to realize what it looks like."

"In what way?" Daphne demanded. "That Tracey's a half-blood, or that I'm a lesbian? Because I don't think you can exactly change either of them –"

"Tracey's blood status has nothing to do with this," Pansy said emphatically. "She's proven herself time and time again that she'd be a good match for any decent wizard –"

"Ah, so it _is_ the lesbian thing then," Daphne said icily. "Way to beat around the bush – metaphorically, obviously, because I doubt your sloppy experiences with Draco would give you anything close to acquainting you with what a good bush looks like."

Pansy went scarlet. "That's – that's –"

"Oh, come on, of all the guys in Hogwarts, he _has_ to be the one who shaves down there," Daphne said with a snort. "No, you want to know what I think, Pansy? 'Cause as ass-backwards as your views are, particularly in magical society – I mean, come on, I thought your father's campaign was about being _more_ progressive than the Muggles – I don't think that's the problem. No, maybe it's that I managed to hold onto my blonde bombshell while yours dumped you like dragon dung after a week in the sun."

Pansy's eyes bulged for a moment, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. She took several deep breaths before she spoke again. "This has nothing to do with your sexual preferences, Greengrass, it's good politics. You and I could do great things together –"

"Well, with you, it'd probably only be mediocre," Daphne said, examining her fingernails, "but given your track record, it'd probably be the best you've ever had."

"– but failing that, I don't want us to be enemies," Pansy finished, her cheeks still flushed with anger. "We're both smart, rich, and well-connected, and I know how dangerous you can be."

"Thank you," Daphne replied, cocking an eyebrow at the unexpected compliment.

"You're welcome. My point is that big things will be happening this year, and I want to make sure those of us who have potential are spared the storm."

"I don't need your protection."

"Oh, but you do," Pansy said softly. "I know enough about what's coming to know that if you choose to be my enemy, you will regret it. You forget that your sister and I get along – I can easily work with her."

"Then do it." Daphne's eyes hardened. "But I think you know as well as I do that Astoria's worthless. You don't want a crony."

"I'll take her if she gets me what I want." Pansy smirked. "In fact, I'll take anything and _anyone_. Want to reconsider?"

"No." Daphne slowly rose to her feet, fighting the fury that was surging in her gut. "In fact, it's about time I leave."

"You're making a big mistake, you stupid dyke –"

"You need to get _fucked_," Daphne said, as she tossed her empty wineglass on the floor at Pansy's feet, raw hatred dripping from every word as she stared straight into Pansy's beady black eyes. "I don't care by what and I really don't care by whom. Regardless of that, if you choose to fuck with me, or fuck with the woman I care about, I will manually plant a Venomous Tentacula in your cunt, and every month, it'll get plenty of nourishment. That's the fucking you need _and_ the one you deserve."

"That's a worthless threat."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Daphne said, a twisted smile on her face. "I'm _really _good at Herbology."

* * *

Greyback bowed low as the heavy double doors closed behind him.

"My lord, we have the containers."

Lord Voldemort did not look at the werewolf – his attention was focused on something much more extraordinary. Hovering above the ground, whirling about a central point like moons around a planet, were shards of marble. But while normal marble was hard and glassy, this stone seemed to be amorphous, almost liquid, glowing only faintly from sporadic sparking connections to each other.

Stone made liquid, but no heat was required. Many would deem it impossible – a word that with regards to magic, the Dark Lord held in contempt.

"The cargo is as expected." It wasn't a question.

Greyback flinched, and Voldemort gave a thin-lipped smile at the werewolf's discomfort. After all, most would balk from hearing another's voice both in the open air and inside his head.

"It is, my lord. Thousands of units."

"Not nearly enough," Voldemort said quietly, "but adequate to begin construction. Have the containers themselves been disassembled?"

"Yes, my lord, and already sent to the main construction site."

"Good," Voldemort said, giving his wand an experimental flick. The blobs of liquid marble fused seamlessly into a ring of fluid stone, and he nodded with satisfaction. "We will need additional units – speak to Nott on the way out, he'll supply you with Gunther's next payment –"

"My Lord… there, ah, may be…"

This time his eyes met Greyback's, and he saw the rage and fear in the werewolf's eyes as he peered deeper to the surface memory when Greyback had learned that –

"Giles Gunther is dead."

"My lord, I swear, I did not –"

"How?" His tone brooked no argument, and he saw Greyback look sideways, like a trapped dog desperately seeking the closest exit.

"From what my source says… it was a Muggle bolt to the head, my Lord –"

Voldemort looked away – it hadn't taken much to glean the answers from the surface of the werewolf's mind. His mind raced with new possibilities as his eyes returning to the liquid torus of stone. The sparking light now came from within the solid piece.

"Excellent," he murmured, lowering his wand. The glowing liquid ring immediately fell – and landed with a heavy thud on the carpet beneath it, completely solid.

"My lord, should I –"

"Yes," Voldemort said calmly, turning to face the werewolf again. "You _should_ work to recruit other smugglers at the agreed-upon rate. It would also be in both of our best interests that we locate the ship that Gunther used, so we might continue his noble work."

Greyback's eyes widened. "A good plan, my lord, but the ship is invisible. It may be lost to us."

"Is it, now?" Immediately, the possibilities came to mind – an invisible, mobile fortress, likely retrofitted for speed and stealth and to handle intruders…

"Yes, my lord –"

"Bellatrix!"

It was an added benefit of the 'accident' – his words that spoke to minds had a much further range than his physical voice. A second later, the witch appeared in the room with a pop, her eyes wide and fanatical, her wand in her hand.

Voldemort didn't speak a word. His hand seized her outstretched arm, and his wand sent the vivid red tattoo on it jet black. To her credit, Bellatrix did not scream.

"Greyback, take these words back to your pack," Voldemort said softly. "Gunther's loss is unfortunate, but his death may have provided us a greater boon. Gather your wolves swiftly – Gunther left behind a powerful vessel with his passing, and I intend to make it _mine_."

* * *

It had taken Scrimgeour at least ten minutes of pacing and hard thinking in an adjacent hallway to wrench his temper in line. Ten minutes of muffled curses and whirling possibilities, scrambled plans and hasty revisions.

For a few minutes, he had considered taking a swig of something with kick – something he hadn't done for almost fourteen years – but his better instincts prevailed. _It's not worth getting into that again… there was a reason I stopped, and this is not a good enough reason to start again._

But now he was calm – at least as calm as he could be. He was still angry – upset at himself for breaking the glass in front of Skeeter, furious with Parkinson for the sheer gall of his campaign, angry at the crowd of imbeciles that had immediately thronged Parkinson's table, their pockets jingling with more gold than he could ever hope to win…

And downright livid with the man who had delayed the process long enough to allow this campaign to begin. The man who had vanished for months, before returning with a dragon in tow. The man who had managed to broker a peace with the goblins and reclaim the positions that were stripped from him – delaying Scrimgeour's barely-contested rise to Minister.

And now there was a new candidate who could beat him.

He found his target alone at the bar furthest from Parkinson's table.

The affable smile and twinkle in his bright blue eyes hadn't faded throughout the course of the night, and despite Scrimgeour's suspicions that the old man was well over a hundred years old, he was still going strong.

_Time to put a damper on that._

"You are angry," Albus Dumbledore said calmly, before Scrimgeour could even open his mouth. "Justifiably so – I can understand why."

Scrimgeour took a steadying breath as he took the glistening glass of water from the bartender. "Anger doesn't quite… it doesn't quite cover it, Dumbledore."

Dumbledore closed his eyes, his smile fading. "I know, Rufus."

"I mean, I don't what else could have gone wrong tonight," Scrimgeour continued, his eyes blazing as he let some of his rage come to the surface. "I show up to this reception full of stuffed shirts and worthless cronies, fully aware that there are other things sitting on my desk that are of far, _far_ greater importance than this waste, only to see the man who was responsible for defending Death Eaters before the Wizengamot announce with all the fanfare in the world that he's going to run for Minister For Magic."

His eyes narrowed. "You know who was first in line for that position, Dumbledore."

"Rufus –"

"I have waited for years," Scrimgeour snarled, slamming his open palm on the table. "_Years_, Albus! All throughout last year, I watched as Fudge mismanaged disaster after disaster, keeping my mouth shut as I tried to remain civil. The Ministry attacked twice, Gringotts robbed, Azkaban _destroyed_, the Daily Prophet offices incinerated by Fiendfyre, attacks from goblins and Death Eaters and I don't know what the hell else hitting us over and over and over again! Aurors and Hit Wizards dying by the dozen thanks to terrible policy and mismanagement that should have gotten Fudge sacked a dozen times over by any rational government." Scrimgeour's golden eyes blazed with rage as he leaned closer. "And to top it all off, the Supreme Mugwump himself turns out to have cut a deal with Lord Voldemort himself, and then he dies before he can be held accountable.

"And after all that, it finally looks as if I have a shot for the position I have earned – and then under your advice, we choose to settle things with the goblins and the International Confederation of Wizards first, and that process drags on for months until finally – _finally_ – everything is in the clear. And then…"

Dumbledore gave Scrimgeour a penetrating look. "Rufus, I am not precognitive – I could not have foreseen this. If I had –"

"You wouldn't have told me anyway," Scrimgeour said bluntly, taking a single swallow from his glass before setting it down silently. "Because that's the way you do things. And you wonder why I don't trust you."

"I truly wish you did," Dumbledore said, a strange note of sadness in his voice. "After all, we are both on the same side in this war."

"I'm glad you said that," Scrimgeour said curtly, "because now I have an election race to win, and I'm going to need your support. You and I both know what will happen if Parkinson wins this."

"Once again, I cannot see the future, Rufus –"

"Oh for the love of – you're not dense, Dumbledore!" Scrimgeour fought to keep his voice low "Willard Parkinson and his bloody law firm have been defending Death Eaters for years, he's damn near one himself –"

"But as far as we know," Dumbledore said calmly, "he is not one. And despite the limited sources of information within the Death Eaters that I possess, I can speculate that nothing has changed there."

"Fine, so there's a difference between bad people and Death Eaters," Scrimgeour said acidly, "but that still doesn't make him a good candidate for the Minister's office, nor does it change the fact that if he does get in, we might as well hand over the Ministry to Voldemort on a silver platter!"

He lowered his voice. "You know that we can't allow that to happen."

Dumbledore took a long sip from his sniffer of Firewhiskey. "Be careful, Rufus."

"You have resources outside the control of the Ministry – resources that are powerful enough to –"

"Be _careful_, Rufus," Dumbledore repeated, his tone hardening.

"You know as well as I do that I would never ask unless the circumstances were dire – and I'm not asking here, let's keep that in mind – but you do have those resources –"

"And if said resources are used to ensure the disappearance of your opponent and your subsequent victory" Dumbledore replied blandly, "what does that say about the legitimacy of your candidacy?"

"Oh for the love of – what about the legitimacy of _his_ candidacy?" Scrimgeour said hotly. "He's –"

"Declared his candidacy to the public," Dumbledore replied evenly, setting his glass on the bar. "I did not spend decades supporting a democratic government to be the one who dismantles it." His tone went abruptly icy with disappointment. "I expected better of you, Rufus."

Scrimgeour could hardly contain his rage. "Are you – are you _kidding me_? You of all people do not have the goddamned _right_ to be self-righteous when you have your merry band of vigilantes killing those who get in your way –"

"The Order has never condoned murder," Dumbledore said, his voice suddenly very soft, "even when the Ministry did."

"And you're just going to keep lying to my face, aren't you?" Scrimgeour said, keeping his voice as low as he could as he felt his hand shaking with rage. "You have one of your men kill just last night and you tell me –"

"Excuse me?" Dumbledore's eyes widened with surprise. "What was that?"

"Oh, don't pretend you don't know –"

"I _don't_ know," Dumbledore replied in a low voice, and to Scrimgeour's amazement, there was some real shock in the old Headmaster's voice. "Who was killed?"

"Giles Gunther," Scrimgeour replied curtly, folding his arms over his chest. "Smuggler, old member of Raskul Dolohov's operation, I know you're probably familiar with his backstory. In any case, he was murdered by a Muggle bullet in the head by a big bald black man – now, which member of your Order of the Phoenix does _that_ sound like?"

"That's impossible." Dumbledore shook his head adamantly. "Kingsley was with Order members – all of whom can testify to you – all night last night. And if Kingsley was looking to commit murder, he would certainly know better than to use a firearm and leave evidence behind."

Scrimgeour didn't entirely believe Dumbledore, but he was perplexed by the surprised intensity of his statement. _He seems just as shocked as I was – but if Shacklebolt wasn't responsible –_

"Are you willing to have Shacklebolt sit for questioning?"

"In a heartbeat," Dumbledore replied immediately. "Rufus, once again, we are on the same side. If there is a leak, it needs to be found immediately. But there is a difference between that and –"

"I know, forget about it," Scrimgeour replied, some of the rage seeping away as he picked up his water glass and took another drink. He took a deep breath, trying to cool his frayed nerves. "I'm just worried."

"Believe me, I share your concern."

"It doesn't help matters that Parkinson will be able to outclass and outspend me at every turn, particularly with the backing of this blasted place behind him – despite the fact the man has never run for any office –"

"He knows the rules of the Wizengamot and the Ministry," Dumbledore finished, understanding immediately. "That does not make up for experience, Rufus –"

"My experience," Scrimgeour said in a low voice, "was under Fudge, and I don't need to be tarred with his brush, and you can bet that'll be most of Parkinson's strategy against me. Plus with the whole lie of 'wizard progressivism' or whatever the hell that's supposed to be –"

"It is not a lie."

"Excuse me?" Disbelief and incredulity filled his voice. "The Parkinsons are an old family of purebloods that are nearly as bigoted as the Blacks! All the populist garbage he spewed –"

"– Was not an act," Dumbledore replied, a pensive expression on his face. "It was difficult to tell, but the more I think on it, the more I am sure of it. Willard Parkinson is a man who can speak lies with absolute conviction, but both his choice of Greengrass and his announcement speech are more revealing – he believes in what he is saying. He wants to combat stagnation in wizarding society, and he sold it to this crowd in the only way he knew they could accept it." The old man sighed. "I cannot deny that it is an appealing message that rings very true."

Scrimgeour could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Are you saying – no, don't tell me that you're planning…"

Dumbledore was silent for a long few seconds. "Even the worst of men can come up with good ideas, and such men are often the few who dare to follow through. Whether it is ruthlessness, greed, or arrogance, they are willing to do terrible things to achieve great things, to take risks in the name of their goals because they possess neither the conscience nor morals to stop them. They may not be the ones to force the stakes to rise, but they are the ones who will not balk at their rising."

He looked up at the Head Auror. "Would you have dared, Rufus Scrimgeour? Would you have dared to bring such ideas to light, show the wizarding world an idea of change and evolution, pull them from the lull of regressive stagnation and drag them by their collars into a new dawn?"

"Whatever dawn Parkinson promises will be false," Scrimgeour said furiously, "and you know it –"

"Would you dare?" Dumbledore's voice was quiet and steady, his bright blue eyes staring straight into Scrimgeour's – straight _through_ him. "Would you try?"

"There's a reason why Parkinson can make those promises," Scrimgeour spat, "and sure, maybe it's idealism – unfortunately, I'm more acquainted with reality. And I'm not going to lie and sugar-coat the truth. And you know, maybe it's just me, but I'm not sure the best time to try and shift the cultural paradigm is in the middle of a _war_."

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times," Dumbledore replied, spreading his hands. "You are one of the few who can frame the debate, Rufus – which do want to choose?"

"Do I have a choice, if I want to win?" Scrimgeour asked bitingly.

"Of course you do."

"The question was rhetorical." Scrimgeour said, draining his glass and turning away.

"My answer was not."

Scrimgeour heard Dumbledore's words, and the warning implicit in them.

He didn't turn back.

* * *

The first thing he noticed was the lack of colour.

He blinked quickly as he looked down the winding corridor, a meandering hallway of closely fitted stones, with row after row of stone doors set into the grey stone. Even the muted candlelight was hidden behind dusty filters, casting everything in the same dim, dour shade. Where Gringotts had been untamed caverns hollowed out of the stone, the vaults of the International Wizard Banking Consortium were refined and polished – and very, very grey.

"No landmarks," Tonks muttered as she stepped out of the shaft, "and I bet everything moves around a lot – it's going to be a devil of a time tracking Lucius' vault. You'd think that there'd be a spell or something that would be tied to the quill –"

"There probably is," Harry replied with some concern as he drew his wand, and laid it flat on his palm. "Problem is, we don't know it. Hmm… _point me_."

The wand spun quickly and pointed straight at a stone wall, and Harry took a deep breath. "Okay, that's north."

"Doesn't exactly help us when we don't know which vault is which."

"Maybe," Harry conceded, "but it'll help us track down the closest underground point to Gringotts, which is where the goblins will be – and that means we need to be angled outwards from the bank, which is… _east_. Assuming that these corridors aren't outside of regular space or do something seriously twisted, it's as good enough as anything."

"Hang on." Tonks drew her wand and pointed at the ground. "_Flagrate._"

A second later, a flaming 'X' was blazing on the stone floor – and then a second later, the 'X' evaporated into thin air, not even leaving scorched stone in its wake.

Tonks snorted. "Should have expected it. Worth a try, though."

They started walking down the corridor, their footsteps echoing ominously on the polished stone. They reached an intersection, and Harry turned right, but immediately the corridor doubled back and descended deeper.

"This is creepy," Tonks muttered, glancing over her shoulder as her hair went pink. "I'm not claustrophobic, but if I was, a tunnel like this would probably kill me…"

They took another turn towards the east, but Harry couldn't help but feel unnerved as they proceeded down the identical corridor, and then another. None of the vaults were marked, none of the candle brackets were different, even the subtle stone discolourations seemed identical as they walked, the silence only broken by the clicking of heels and his simulacrum's shallow breathing…

"If we're not careful, we're going to get turned around," Harry said tersely, tapping his wand on a stone vault door. "Left here, Tonks."

"It looks like that tunnel doubles back." She swallowed hard. "Then again, this all really looks the same –"

Harry heard it first – a low rumble, like the sound of a distant Muggle machine. In a nearly silent tunnel, any sound was apparent.

"Did you hear that?"

"That's either the goblins or something the board of directors decided would be good for keeping us quiet," Tonks said, taking a deep breath. "Which direction do you think…"

"Left," Harry said firmly, setting out down the identical corridor. "Even if it doubles back, it might go deeper like the last one."

And sure enough, it did – although one could hardly tell with the corridors all looking the same, the same bland grey, the same stifling silence that seemed to even make their footfalls quieter.

"The whole thing had to be Lucius Malfoy's idea," Tonks muttered. "This sort of faux-austerity, the fact it feels like we're rats in a goddamned maze –"

The explosion cut her off in mid-sentence, and Harry felt himself stagger backwards as the corridor shook violently, peppering them with dust and fragments of stone, the acrid smell of burnt rock filling their nostrils…

And out of the dust cloud came a creature the size of an elephant. As tall as the ceiling and nearly as wide, it looked like an overgrown mole, it had big bright eyes and an elongated snout, both peeking out from the thick bristly black fur that covered every inch of the creature. But Harry's astonished eyes landed on the strange, translucent sacs beneath the snout – inside them jingled hundreds of coins, with plenty of room for more.

Tonks coughed and looked bemusedly at the shadow behind the creature. "Nice entry, Hagrid."

"I reckon them bankers above probably dint hear that," Hagrid said, pulling off his goggles as he stepped out of the hole in the wall and eyed the massive creature with affection. "That yer partner?"

Harry fought back his urges to pull Hagrid into a thankful embrace, and instead gave him a nod and a smile. "Clarissa Desdame, Mr. Hagrid. And this is…"

"A Grandmother Niffler."

The second voice came from a goblin, stepping out of the hole and brushing soot off his charcoal-coloured waistcoat. Unlike most goblins, this one had skin that was leathery and tanned, and a jagged scar split across one of his eyes. He eyed Harry and Tonks with extreme distrust.

"Miss Desdame, Miss Tonks, this is Ragnok," Hagrid explained quickly. "He's a friend 'o Dumbledore's –"

"Less of a friend," Ragnok interrupted, "and more that we have shared mutual enemies. Even despite the decimation of the Malfoys, the score has yet to be settled."

"So now that you're here, you'll be able to help us find the gold?" Tonks asked cautiously.

"Yes, or more accurately, the Grandmother Niffler will," Ragnok replied curtly, gesturing at the overgrown creature. It let out a happy burbling noise and began trundling down the hall, the stone shuddering slightly at its bulk. "If my sources are correct, the walls and vault doors are enchanted to mask the trace of gold within. If the correction to the ledger was completed correctly, the enchantment will fade temporarily and the Niffler will be able to find the right vault door."

"Clever enough," Harry said, glancing with askance at Tonks. The hard look and edge in the goblin's voice didn't inspire complete confidence in their ally.

The Niffler let out a strange sound – something between a snort and burble, and began galumphing faster, and they hurried behind it to keep up, the goblin closest to the front to keep the great creature under control. From the longing smile on Hagrid's face, Harry guessed his friend wanted one of his own.

"So what's Ragnok's deal?" Tonks asked softly, glancing at the goblin.

Hagrid's smile faded. "When Malfoy formed this here bank, he needed a goblin on the inside. He put Ragnok under Imperius, and used him to funnel yer gold outta Gringotts." He winced. "And when the other goblins found out… well, Ragnok was the one that _survived_ the purge."

"So when he's talking about settling a score the Malfoys –"

"Even gettin' Harry's money back won' be enough fer him," Hagrid said, unable to keep the note of concern from his voice. "If Draco Malfoy's still alive, I bet yeh there's a reckonin' coming."

* * *

The meeting had been short and efficient. The orders were simple, their objective very clear – the ship was to be found, taken, and removed to a safe location. And _she_ was in command – a fact that sent tingles of pride and anticipation surging down her spine.

"Bellatrix."

The voice snapped her out of her reverie, and she glared daggers at Yaxley, who for his credit did not back down. "What? Make this brief –"

"In private."

Bellatrix rolled her eyes – nobody would _dare_ eavesdrop on her if they valued their ears – but she cast the privacy charms anyway. "There. Now what do you want?"

"There were Death Eaters missing in the circle."

"Not unusual," Bellatrix said caustically, "and if you're speaking of the newest absences, Dolohov has a special mission from the Dark Lord that has taken him elsewhere." Her eyes narrowed as she strolled closer to the stately, blond-haired wizard. He wasn't as rich or smooth as Lucius had been, but he had a certain dangerous dignity about him that she grudgingly respected. _And any man willing to deal with Dementors…_

"I'm not speaking of Dolohov," Yaxley replied in a low voice. "There was another missing from the circle."

Bellatrix cast her mind back to the memory, recalling hooded figures of various heights and statures – being the closest to her master, she knew nearly all of them…

And there it was. A gap in the circle – a missing Death Eater, one that she normally glanced over anyway due to his inconsequentiality.

"You speak," she hissed, "of Wormtail."

"Of course I do," Yaxley said harshly. "The rat's gone, and I'm sure the Dark Lord knows it, but he did not mention it. Not looking to draw attention to the fact that the perpetual traitor is gone again."

"Wormtail would have to be absolutely mad to betray the Dark Lord –"

"Or he feels he has a chance to seek the highest level of protection," Yaxley replied, "and with our spies indicating your traitorous cousin and his pet wolf are out of the country, he may seek sanctuary with another."

Hot rage surged through her, and she let the emotion twist her face into a snarl. "Well, Yaxley, we have two choices. If he's on a mission for the Dark Lord, we can aid him in his double-cross. If he has chosen to betray us again…" Her lips curled into a hungry smile. "Well, I'm in need of another _project_."

"You give me leave?"

"Send some of your Dementors first," Bellatrix said after an instant of thought. "Just to observe, not to engage. But the second we find evidence of his betrayal…"

She let her sentence trail off purposefully, savouring every bloody possibility.

* * *

The reception had grown loud and boisterous. The alcohol had flowed freely, and the music was now drowned out by drunken yells and shouting. The maids hurried from table to table with fresh platters of drinks, their faces placid under the Calming Charm, not reacting to the growing chaos around them.

Nobody noticed two women slipping back into the room. They had once been dressed as maids, but a few deft transfigurations had changed their maid outfits into serviceable – if indecently tight – dress robes. Between the subtle changes and the triumphant smiles on their faces, nobody could tell the difference.

That is, except for their lone contact.

Dumbledore smiled as Harry and Tonks approached. "Ah, you made it. How went your business?"

"Without a hitch," Harry replied, toying a bit with his wand as he glanced around the room at the party – nobody seemed to recognize him. _Perfect_. "Everything was moved, Hagrid says hello, and everything was left the way we found it."

"Excellent work," Dumbledore replied, his smile broadening. "And like all excellent work, it deserves a fine reward. Would you deign to accompany an old man?"

Tonks could barely repress a giggle as Dumbledore gave her a courtly bow, but she accepted Dumbledore's hand, and they headed towards the door.

"Anything new that we should know about?" Harry asked, just audible enough that Dumbledore could hear above the din

"Draco is indeed alive," Dumbledore replied, "which proves Lord Voldemort did not completely eradicate that family line. He will also be returning to Hogwarts."

"Is that wise?" Tonks asked warily.

"Even despite what Draco has done and endured, Miss Vuneren," Dumbledore said, "I cannot deny the young man a proper education – particularly if it could mean saving him. He is not irredeemable –"

"Ah, Dumbledore!"

Harry and Tonks both nearly froze at the same time – they knew that voice. _Uh oh…_

Dumbledore nodded graciously as Willard Parkinson approached, a winning smile on his face – a smile that didn't extend to his eyes, which immediately landed on Tonks and Harry. _And he knows these identities…_

"Congratulations on your very successful evening, Willard," Dumbledore said, before gesturing at Tonks and Harry. "I see you've met my friends Clarissa Desdame and Nymphadora Vuneren –"

"I'm familiar," Parkinson said, his eyes staying on Harry, "and I thought your little partnership was _shut down_. Awfully coincidental that you're here, I can't seem to recall your names being on the invite list –"

"Guests of mine, Willard," Dumbledore said with a smile, "and quite engaging conversation, I must say. Unfortunately, I must take them away from you – we do have important business to discuss."

"I won't delay you much longer then," Parkinson said, handing Dumbledore a thick envelope. "Please examine it at your leisure – I would greatly appreciate your support for my campaign. I want to give wizards a change they can believe in."

"Powerful words."

"Not just words," Parkinson said firmly, "a mission statement. This is very important to me, Dumbledore – I want my name to be associated with an evolutionary movement, driving our civilization into a new age."

He glanced at Tonks and Harry, and his lip curled. "Free of past… _baggage._ Have a pleasant evening."

They didn't speak again until they were out in Diagon Alley, in the cool London night.

"What campaign?"

"Willard Parkinson is running for Minister for Magic," Dumbledore said thoughtfully, "and on a very interesting platform, one that Scrimgeour will have difficulty attacking."

"But it's an obvious set-up," Tonks protested as they continued down the narrow alley. "I mean, the second Parkinson gets in, he turns the Ministry over to You-Know-Who."

"Likely," Dumbledore agreed, "which means either Scrimgeour must win, or Parkinson's true motivations be determined. A very interesting project."

"Uh, Professor…"

"Yes, Clarissa?" Dumbledore asked kindly.

"I think you can call him his true name, there's nobody in ear shot," Tonks whispered.

"When we get to our destination, I will," Dumbledore replied as they resumed their walk. "Which, as I'm sure Clarissa has noticed, is _not_ the Leaky Cauldron. Ah, we're here."

On the near-deserted streets of Diagon Alley, it had only taken them a few minutes to reach a new building, the stonework still unfinished. Harry frowned – he distinctly remembered a very different building being there…

"Wasn't this the location of the _Daily Prophet_?"

"It was, before Sirius Black visited," Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling as they approached the double doors. "But the Fiendfyre razed the building to the ground, leaving nothing behind. So when Rita Skeeter took the reins of the paper, she decided on a different location in Diagon Alley, leaving this land open for development."

"But the _Daily Prophet_ offices were really big," Tonks said with a frown, "and it looks to me like Twilfit & Tattings has expanded a bit…"

"They purchased two-thirds of the land," Dumbledore explained, "at a bargain rate. And that left just enough space for what I would like to show you."

He withdrew a heavy bronze key from his robes and fitted it carefully into the lock. With a single twist the doors slid silently open, and Harry and Tonks saw a reception desk, and behind it a spiral staircase winding up to a second floor of offices. On the side walls were massive bookshelves filled with thick volumes, the shelves towering to the ceiling, with ladders resting on polished rails, able to slide and access new volumes. The entire place had an air of regal dignity, of class and polish, of sharpened excellence and tempered wisdom.

"It was an interesting idea that you had," Dumbledore said, giving an astounded Harry and Tonks an approving smile, "and one certainly worthy of expansion. So I took whatever time I could find, between Hogwarts and negotiating goblin treaties, and _expanded_ your idea. I took the liberty of circumspectly hiring the right people, calling in the right favours, and keeping everything within very quiet. It cost a fair amount of Galleons to build it all and even more to keep the right people from leaking it, but I think it was worth it."

"You took what we said," Tonks began with amazement, "you took our story –"

"And turned it into a reality," Dumbledore finished. "Harry, Miss Tonks, welcome to your offices. Welcome to Desdame & Vuneren."


	5. Chapter 4: Dangerous Liaisons

_**Author's Notes: thanks for the commentary, people - always good to get some reviews. This is something of a slower chapter, but I think the stage needs to be set before the fireworks start going off. Always interested in your opinion, of course, so as always, read, review, bitch, criticize, and enjoy!**_

_Chapter 4: Dangerous Liaisons  
_

She had forgotten to completely close the curtains before they had gone to bed that night, and they never had proper sunlight in the Slytherin dormitory – it always seemed like there was a damp filter over the light, making it murky and muddled.

So the sunlight struck her dead in the eyes, and Daphne blinked rapidly as she put a hand to her face, her curse going unspoken as she looked up at the gently arched ceiling of her bedroom.

The sunlight had come at a good time – she had needed an exit from her dreams.

"Daph…"

She shifted to watch Tracey begin to stir, her beautiful blue eyes fluttering. If she wasn't sure she was awake, Daphne could have believed _this_ was a dream. Her best friend – her _girlfriend_ – drifting to wakefulness next to her.

"Go back to sleep, Tracey," Daphne whispered, running a soothing hand under the covers down her girlfriend's side. "It's too early."

Tracey grinned. "You're touching me – how is that supposed to help me fall asleep?"

Daphne kept stroking Tracey's smooth pale skin. "Just relax – we can have some fun when you get up. Just think of that."

Tracey sighed with contentment and closed her eyes, and Daphne could feel her girlfriend sidle a little closer. Daphne tried to hold back her own shiver of excitement at the warmth of her girlfriend's legs entwining with hers, but her throaty moan betrayed her.

Even now, after the six months or so that they had been together, she didn't quite believe it. She couldn't even quite explain how it had happened, how they had progressed from a pair of best friends to something more than that – somewhere along the way, it had happened, and they had both just gone with it. It had been slow, tentative at first, but then at some point, the long conversations had transformed into longer periods of… other activities.

_It's probably the best thing that could have happened,_ she thought, watching her girlfriend slumber as she stroked her long blonde hair. _I mean, the chance that my best friend would be a lesbian the same way I am… the chance that we'd have a chance to get together like this, that it'd work, and that she'd be so goddamn hot…_

Daphne knew she wasn't any troll herself, but Tracey was something else entirely. Luscious blonde hair that was thick and smooth as silk. Flawless features, any hints of acne carefully charmed away. A figure toned by an incredible metabolism and boundless energy. And blue eyes that Daphne could spend all day staring into, filled with an innocent simple optimism that never seemed to fade, whether she was writing a test or lovingly stroking sensitive spots of Daphne's body. It was enthralling.

She didn't get how people didn't see it – hell, how _anyone_ didn't see it. Maybe the optimism was off-putting, maybe Tracey was a little clueless at times, maybe it was because she seemed stupid to people who didn't get her…

Or maybe it was because she had only had eyes for Daphne. And Daphne didn't get that. Sure, she was pretty, but she wasn't spectacular. Tracey deserved spectacular.

They hadn't talked to 'define' the relationship, and to some extent, Daphne wished that they could have – it might have made things easier to explain.

But then again, what explanation was needed? She didn't need to explain things to Pansy or Draco or to her father – okay, _maybe_ to him. He was her dad, after all. But the rest she didn't care about – it wasn't any of their fucking business what she did or who she did it with. And time and time again they had proven that they didn't deserve an explanation – people who deserved it were people who mattered, people who were relevant. And to Daphne, that list was small indeed.

For a second, she wondered about talking to Millicent. If Pansy was right and the girl was a lesbian – improbable, to be sure, but Daphne had been surprised before – maybe she could understand. But that thought died a quick death – Pansy had been right, the girl had the sophistication of Crabbe and Goyle. She wouldn't get it, and even if she did, Daphne was sure she didn't want to hear the lumbering girl's painfully inarticulate advice.

_It's not like Tracey would be any more articulate_.

Daphne jammed her eyes shut and tried to ignore that little voice, the one that sounded like a smug fusion of Professors Umbridge and Snape, sweetly smug, but acrid and intelligent enough to provoke the worst possible thoughts.

_After all, it's not like you're with Tracey for her intellect._

_Shut up_, Daphne thought, her muscles stiffening with supressed rage. _I don't need this_.

She didn't need to be second-guessing herself – what message would that send to Tracey, who had been hesitant about them being together publically in the first place? Daphne was the one who was supposed to be tough as nails, arrogant and snide and contemptuous of those who dared to judge them, and capricious with their punishment.

Tracey relied on that. She needed that security. And though she'd never admit it, Daphne knew she relied on it too. Although the 'political' nature of Slytherin was often dramatized by people too stupid to know otherwise, Daphne knew that Pansy wouldn't hesitate to make her life hell if she had the chance.

But that wasn't the only reason for her little charade – okay, _that_ wasn't true. It wasn't a charade; she knew she had tendencies that bordered on the sociopathic. But still…

_You're using it as a shield to avoid talking about the relationship…_

The singsong taunt in her mind made Daphne clench her hand into a fist. She didn't want – no, she didn't _need_ to talk about it. What was the point of talking about it – they were happy, they had a great thing going, and Daphne knew that she'd fight tooth-and-nail to keep it going, so why discuss something that didn't need discussing?

_You're not afraid of the talk, _the voice said mockingly. _No, you're afraid that Tracey's incapable of giving the right answer._

Daphne blinked as quickly as she could – she wasn't going to cry while she was in bed with her girlfriend, she wasn't going to let some perverse part of her mind get the better of her…

_Maybe I need the explanation,_ Daphne thought numbly. _Maybe I'm the one who needs this explained, just for my own goddamn peace of mind. But then again, it probably can't be explained, and that'd just be my fucking luck, wouldn't it?_

"Daph…"

She rolled over to see her girlfriend's eyes flutter open again.

"I can't sleep."

Despite everything going on in her head, she still smiled. "Oh? And why not?"

Tracey reached out a hand and slipped it between Daphne's bare breasts, slowly tracing a line down to between her legs. She couldn't help but quiver with anticipation as she pulled Tracey into a tight embrace, her girlfriend's warmth sending tingles down her spine.

"That…" she mumbled. "That sounds like… like a good reason."

"Why couldn't you sleep?"

Daphne closed her eyes, wishing she could blot out the image that wouldn't fade no matter how hard she tried. _I thought dreams were supposed to fucking go away once you woke up. _"Bad dreams."

"That's not fun," Tracey said consolingly. "You want to talk about it?"

"No," Daphne said shortly. "I want to forget it."

But in the darker parts of her mind, she didn't think she could. The image was as clear as anything.

Tracey was with another person – boy or girl, it was hard to tell – and Daphne was alone. She wasn't afraid of being alone – she _wasn't, _only the weak aren't lonely – but it still hurt to watch Tracey with some other person.

And then the person left Tracey, and the darkness was folding in around them, and Tracey was crying out for someone to hold her and no matter how hard she tried, Daphne couldn't get there. She could only watch the fear take hold in those bright blue eyes as the innocence within broke apart –

Daphne swallowed hard. "Tracey…"

"Shh, it's gone," Tracey whispered. "I'm here."

Daphne's embrace tightened. "Yeah… yeah, I know."

They kissed, and Daphne could feel her girlfriend's longing for more contact – something Daphne immediately understood. Her tongue darted in and out of Tracey's mouth as they kissed each other hungrily, Daphne's hand slipping to caress Tracey's breasts…

_No more bad dreams_, she thought, as Tracey ran her hands through Daphne's hair. _I might not completely get this relationship, but I will… somehow. Tracey and I… well, we'll figure it out, and I'll set fire to every motherfucker who tries to stop me._

* * *

"I can 'ave a room prepared –"

"Just a booth would be fine, Tom," Dumbledore replied kindly, waving away the protests from the bartender. "One of the bigger ones, if possible, I am expecting company. Do you still have that egg dish with the sausage links and the somewhat smoky flavour?"

"Sir, it – it's hardly our best –"

"Send three to the table, and a few glasses of orange juices," Dumbledore said, "and when Hagrid arrives, make sure to point him in the right direction, would you please?"

Tom nodded hastily and gestured towards the nearest booth, where Dumbledore sat. The old patched fabric settled nicely beneath him as he rested his hands on the table and watched the two ladies approach the booth. One was blonde and dressed in professional-looking robes, while the other had hair of a vibrant bubblegum shade that could charitably be described as untidy, and artfully dishevelled robes to match.

"Glad to see you are both up and ready for business," he began cheerfully, as Tonks and Harry – still in his Clarissa Desdame simulacrum – dropped into seats opposite him.

"Yeah, you're definitely a morning person," Tonks said grumpily, accepting the glass of orange juice from Tom. "I figured I didn't need to dress up because the offices are closed on the weekend, and Harry, well…"

"I figured if I could use this while I'm stuck at the Dursleys," Harry said heavily, blinking twice, "it'll give me a bit more security."

"Good choices."

"Yeah," Tonks said, taking a deep breath, as if she was steeling herself for something. "Look, Professor, I really appreciate you setting up the offices for Harry and I –"

"But if we're being completely honest, we're not, well…" Harry glanced out at the rest of the Leaky Cauldron. "Did you –"

"I charmed the booths the second I walked in the door," Dumbledore reassured him. "Everything is quite private."

"We aren't legal professionals," Harry said bluntly. "We aren't lawyers. Part of the whole con was that we'd have enough bravado to avoid the questions, but you _know_ that Parkinson is going to raise holy hell the second he finds out about the office."

Dumbledore smiled. "His occupation with his campaign will serve as a distraction, but I do agree with you here. Fortunately, I have worked to keep this legally airtight. The proper paperwork has been filed with the Ministry and back-dated appropriately to suggest the firm has been operational since last year."

"But it's not like we've taken any cases," Tonks protested. "Hell, as an Auror I know something about Magical Law, but that, that's not something I've studied. If we're expected to go to the Wizengamot, they'll be able to tell immediately something's up."

"If that is the case, I will ensure you are very well-briefed by the team of professionals staffing the office that I recruited," Dumbledore said reassuringly. "And as managing partners of the firm, you will only take cases of the highest profile, leaving the day-to-day cases to the others." He peered over the top of his glasses and gave them a knowing look. "However, I would advise you to brush up on the appropriate volumes as soon as you can."

"But why do we even need this now?" Harry asked with growing confusion. "I mean, I appreciate it for strengthening our cover, but there has to be other reasons why you did this."

Dumbledore's smile faded and he sighed. "With Parkinson choosing to run for Minister, it is all the more crucial that appropriate legal jurisprudence and procedures are followed. The Ministry has mostly learned the lesson of Barty Crouch, but fear can make even the best of us take dire action."

Harry shifted slightly in his seat. Dumbledore noticed the motion, but he said nothing. Instead, he looked at Tonks. "And that means the presence of Desdame & Vuneren as a firm prepared to defend the innocent and pursue fair justice can provide evidence to our world that the due process of law remains."

"Considering how many laws we've broken," Tonks said wryly, "I can appreciate the irony. But I get the point – it's a morale boost, and if Voldemort attacks –"

"He won't."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows as he glanced at Harry, whose brows were furrowed with thought. "Yes, Harry?"

"Voldemort won't make any public attacks," he said slowly, "not while Parkinson is running. If Parkinson is really trying to promote some bright new wizarding future, the threat of Voldemort doesn't help him. Part of Scrimgeour's strength, after all –"

"- Is that he was the head of the Auror Office," Tonks said, a small smile dawning on his face. "He'll be the candidate who's tough on crime and who can present himself as a strong leader against the Death Eaters."

"And Voldemort will likely know that," Harry continued, taking a deep breath. "That means if he wants to boost Parkinson's numbers, he doesn't dare attack openly. It's probably why he _hasn't_ done anything in the open for the past three months."

Tonks' eyes suddenly lit up. "And _that's_ probably why you're letting Parkinson run – because I mean, come on, if it were for any other reason –"

"I would still allow him his campaign," Dumbledore said firmly, "but the broader conclusion is correct. If the campaign is drawn out, it buys us valuable time, as Lord Voldemort will not concentrate his efforts on open warfare. However, that does _not_ mean he will not be active elsewhere. Ah, the eggs are here!"

Tom set the platters down on the table and Dumbledore gestured for the two to start eating.

"Smoky," Tonks commented, a perturbed expression on her face as she frowned. "And a little crunchy… but okay, so if Voldemort's not acting openly, do you have any 'shrewd ideas' what he's going to be doing?"

"A few," Dumbledore said, glancing out into the pub again before lowering his voice. "But with the disappearance of Professor Snape, our reconnaissance within the Death Eaters is limited. That means we must pursue other peripheral sources, and perhaps – ah, Hagrid, good for you to finally arrive." He slid further into the booth and gestured for the large man to sit down. "There is food on the way."

"Thank yeh," Hagrid said gratefully, settling into the booth, which groaned alarmingly at his bulk. The half-giant looked tired – Dumbledore suspected he'd likely been up most of the night. "I talked ter Mundungus."

"And?" Dumbledore asked sharply.

"Contacts aren't quite as extensive as Marcellus'," Hagrid said wearily, "but 'e confirmed what we already knew. You-Know-Who is tryin' to bring in somethin'."

"Any idea what?" Tonks asked curiously.

"Apparently Giles Gunther was gonna spill the beans, but then he got offed." Hagrid took a swig from his bucket-sized tankard and frowned. "'Parently some chap that looks like Kingsley took 'im out."

Harry snapped his eyes to Dumbledore. "Do you think –"

"Kingsley Shacklebolt has a solid alibi," Dumbledore said emphatically, "but this look-alike concerns me. It would not be quite out of Voldemort's purview to kill Gunther, but the usage of a Muggle weapon suggests something else entirely."

"You think the Death Eaters have a traitor?"

"It doesn't help us," Harry said with a frown. "Whoever it is killed Gunther before he could defect."

Tonks frowned. "You know, Kingsley got a lot of nasty burn scars when he fought Voldemort at Azkaban – they're pretty distinctive, people wouldn't forget those. Wasn't there some Muggle eyewitness that saw everything? Maybe one of us should talk to her again, clarify some details."

"I've arranged to speak with her later this morning," Dumbledore said, taking another bite from his eggs. "Hopefully I can convince her to let me acquire the memory of the night, retrieve some context. Anything else, Hagrid?"

"Not directly related to yer smuggler problem," Hagrid said, shifting slightly, "but I talked a bit ter Ragnok last night."

"Ah, good, how is he doing?"

Hagrid shifted uncomfortably. "Well, they're happy they got one over Malfoy, but anythin' connected with Harry and… well, they still think there's a debt to be settlin' there."

"As Harry Potter's legal counsel," Harry said sharply, "I made sure he returned all necessary paperwork to the goblins, and I thought they were satisfied with it. If they had any problems, they should have brought them up earlier –"

"With all due respect, Miss, I don' think it's all on Harry here," Hagrid said hastily, "but there's bad blood there still."

"Do you have any idea what that might be related to?" Dumbledore asked curiously.

Hagrid took a deep breath. "This is me guessin'," he said slowly, "but I bet Nathan Cassane ties into it."

Dumbledore exhaled slowly, his mind racing. Nathan Cassane – a powerful wizard who had reluctantly stepped in as Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot when Dumbledore had been forced to step down. Last of an old family line, he had also fought in the first conflicts against the Death Eaters and paid very dearly for it – and so did everyone close to him. But after the war had ended, the man became reclusive, traveling alone on strange adventures and devising wondrous things in his manor. And when Harry had needed help, Cassane had been willing to step in.

And then everything went wrong. So very wrong. It was a terrible thing to think, but Dumbledore couldn't help but wonder if the man's passing had been less of a tragedy and more of a blessing.

He wasn't entirely surprised at Hagrid's idea – Nathan Cassane had been a complicated man who had made far too many enemies before his death. But…

"If I remember correctly, Cassane never stored any of his, or his family's, wealth at Gringotts. He didn't trust the goblins."

"Can't imagine why," Tonks muttered.

"Well, they probably took a bit of a dim view to some o' his pilferin' over the years," Hagrid continued, "and if he really had gold and foreign treasure…"

"The goblins will want to claim it before anyone else does," Harry finished, his grip on his fork white-knuckled. "If they find his manor, they'll ransack it. But they won't have any claims to anything –"

"They won't need that," Dumbledore said, a note of sad bitterness entering his voice. "Nathan never left a will, and as the last of his family line, I have no idea who inherits any of his property."

"So where do I –" Harry coughed. "I'm sorry, where does my _client_ come in?"

"Harry was probably the one who spent the most time with Cassane before he died," Tonks reasoned. "Maybe the goblins think Cassane left everything to _him_ – or at the very least, Harry knows how to claim his estate."

"The goblins can't know that my client spent any time in the company of Cassane," Harry argued, "and it's certainly not evidence to suggest –"

"But the articles and statements made in your client's support _are_ evidence," Dumbledore said suddenly, tapping his finger on the table. "Weak evidence, admittedly, but evidence nonetheless. Given the rumours of Cassane's wealth, I can imagine the goblins are indeed interested. They'll certainly want to talk to Harry."

"He doesn't have to talk to them."

"True enough, but the goblins' sudden interest is suspicious in and of itself," Dumbledore pointed out. "Why now, and not before during negotiations, when such demands would have had a better chance of being honoured? Wthe new treaty might prevent aggression –"

"Yeh never know what the little buggers might be up to," Hagrid said with a scowl. "I can keep me ear to the ground, see what else we can find."

"In the meantime, it might not be a bad idea to check out Cassane's manor," Tonks added. "Clarissa and I can go handle that."

"And on a similar topic, I did manage to overhear parts of the board meeting Parkinson did last night before his speech," Harry said, glancing from Tonks to Dumbledore. "They were talking about Greengrass' appointment, and it didn't look like all the board members were all that happy he got brought in. If Parkinson is planning on using Greengrass in some way…"

"It would be wise to know for what," Dumbledore finished, giving Harry an approving nod. "Fortunately, I've already sent Arthur to speak with him on a business proposition – hopefully, we can get some additional information –"

The subtle pop of Apparition went unheard, but the presence of Dedalus Diggle, completely out of breath and sweating profusely, was impossible to ignore.

"Albus!" he squeaked. "Sorry to interrupt –"

Dumbledore's eyes lit up with interest. _Could it be…_ "The mission?"

"Kingsley has him," Dedalus panted. "Caught him this morning outside of Wiltshire. He claims he wants to defect –"

"Who wants to defect?" Tonks asked with confusion. "Who are you talking about?"

"A man who has a great deal to answer for," Dumbledore replied, steel in his voice, "and as of right now, Desdame & Vuneren's first prosecutorial assignment."

"It's Pettigrew," Dedalus said, his voice mingling amazement, relief, and excitement. "We got him, Tonks. We got Peter Pettigrew."

* * *

"You know," Paulus Greengrass said heavily, gesturing for the other man to come into the house, "I expected that you would come."

Arthur Weasley didn't look nonplussed at the comment – but he didn't look eager or nervous either. In fact, he looked almost as weary as Paulus felt. "I understand."

"Have you had breakfast?"

"Molly gave me a bit before I stepped out –"

"I haven't." He led the balding man into the glossy, clean kitchen and gestured for him to take a seat. "You want anything? Toast, oatmeal, waffles?"

"No, thank you," Arthur replied with a wave. "I've got a few errands to run, bit of a tight schedule."

"And yet you came to me for – inevitably – a long conversation," Paulus said wryly, pouring himself a fresh mug of tea, brewed hot and black. No cream, no milk, just sugar and lemon. "How did you find out about my nomination, the _Prophet_?"

"I've got my sources."

Paulus cocked an eyebrow. "That's awfully evasive of you, Weasley. Not like you at all."

Arthur shifted uncomfortably. "Well… Merlin, this is awkward, I –"

"You want to know if I'm still planning to work on constructing a wizarding car industry, and if so, you want to contribute your expertise," Paulus cut him off, dropping into the seat opposite Arthur. "Expertise that I'm bound to respect, after all."

"It wouldn't hurt you," Arthur said, frowning slightly as he watched Paulus take a sip of his tea. "Look, of everyone in the Ministry, I'm the one with the most experience with Muggle articles. The enchantments on the Ministry vehicles are paltry and inelegant and completely unoriginal – you and I know that."

"I do," Paulus agreed with a nod.

"Then you also know that there aren't many people with the expertise and the experience to work in this industry," Arthur continued, "particularly when it comes to anything Muggle-related."

"Except that it was never my plan to build off of what the Muggles did," Paulus interjected smoothly, the lines he had rehearsed in his mind coming easily. "I'm looking to take things in a new direction –"

"Right, and on your own, it'll take you five years," Arthur said with a snort. "Come on, Paulus, don't tell me you buy into that load Parkinson apparently said last night."

"It's the only way I'm going to be able to market it –"

"To who?" Arthur gave him an incredulous look. "Look, it's far from me to tell you how to run a business, but what people like Parkinson don't know won't hurt them – they don't need to know what's underneath the hood."

"You're the tinkerer," Paulus pointed out, taking another sip of his tea. "And here I thought you'd be more sympathetic to wizards who'll want to take the new creation apart and see how it works."

Arthur raked a hand over his scalp. "I – look, you're always going to have those people, but those people aren't going to be the same as those who throw gold at you. What I'm proposing –" He coughed. "Excuse me, what I'm proposing is that you utilize my technical expertise in the backroom – none of your contributors will even need to know I'm there, if you're _that_ concerned." There was a brief second of disappointment on his face. "And I really hoped that you wouldn't be. I thought you were a bit better than that."

Paulus glanced away, trying to muster his strength for another argument. "Arthur… I really hate to say this, but you're a blood –"

"You've never believed in that," Arthur replied steadily, but his voice wavered for a moment. "At least I never thought you were."

Paulus eyed the other man with growing frustration. "You had to lay a guilt-trip on me for this? You just had to, didn't you?"

"I'm not telling you anything you don't already know." Arthur took a deep breath. "Look, it's not like I'm doing this for the fame or for –"

"The money?"

Arthur shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I wouldn't say no to that –"

"And I'd be wrong not to give it to you, if we chose to collaborate," Paulus finished with a sigh. "But that can't be everything. Arthur, be honest: what are you after?"

"You'd be paying me to do something I love to do," Arthur replied simply, honestly. "And Molly and I know your family, and it'll give me an excuse to get out the Ministry and all of the politics there –"

Paulus' laugh was short, like a bark. "If you think there won't be politics associated with this job –"

"Not where I'll be working," Arthur replied stubbornly. "Look, it's up to you, and while you might not have a hard time finding people to work for you, you might have a bit of a hard time finding people who know enough to keep up with you, or who have the discipline to stick with it when something goes awry."

"And how often does that happen with you?" Paulus took another sip of tea. "I seem to recall a Ford Anglia in the papers a few years ago."

Arthur winced. "That – that one got away from me a bit, but given everything else going on – there was just a lot on my plate then."

"From the looks of you," Paulus remarked, eyeing the other man and his tired, somewhat dishevelled appearance, "there seems to be a lot on your plate right now."

"As I said, busy schedule," Arthur repeated, blinking quickly. "If I'm working on this, it'll make things easier. Come _on_, Greengrass."

Paulus sighed with frustration – he _hated_ this sort of meeting, he hated having to worry about all of this political nonsense. _It shouldn't matter that I hire a blood traitor, as long as he gets the damn job done well and on time. _"You do know I'm not going to be able to credit you," he warned. "Not in print, at least until I get things going and I can pay all the gold back – and that might take years."

Arthur chuckled and glanced down at his hands. "Greengrass, I've never done anything like this for fame or recognition." He shrugged. "If you're good enough –"

"It comes by itself," Paulus finished tiredly. "Goddamn you, Weasley, it's too early in the morning, and you wore me down." He glanced at his watch and sighed. "I honestly thought I'd hold out a bit longer."

Arthur gave him a small smile and got to his feet. "Well, you've always preferred talent over politics."

"Get out before I change my mind, and meet me in the Leaky Cauldron on Monday," Paulus retorted, but unable to stop a grin of his own. "Let's make this work, Weasley."

"Looking forward to it."

As soon as Arthur Disapparated away, Paulus slumped and closed his eyes. "Daphne, you can come out now."

Her face was nervous as she stepped out from the other room. "I – look, Dad, I didn't mean to overhear –"

He gave her a knowing glance. "Just coincidence, then?"

Daphne reddened slightly as she sat down. "Well… but I thought you said last night –"

"I'm not turning him down because of what other people think, particularly when those thoughts don't overrule his talent," Paulus said flatly, eyeing his daughter as she frowned. "I've never cared about what they think –"

He paused – that wasn't _quite_ true. "Perhaps I have cared," he corrected himself, "but I haven't let their thoughts and opinions shape me. I know who I am, and so did Weasley – that's ultimately why he got the job." He snorted. "He knew I wasn't going to compromise my convictions, even though it might have been easier. But Daphne, the only opinions that should matter to you are those from people you care about, and who care about you, if only _because_ they care."

"Right…"

"And on that subject," Paulus continued, picking up his teacup to drain the last from his glass, "your door was slightly ajar when I walked past your room this morning – and I saw you and Tracey."

Daphne's face went white, and she struggled for words. "I… I… Dad, it's –"

"It's exactly what it looked like. Isn't it?" He gave her a stern glance. "Please don't lie to me, Daphne."

"Dad, I…" She took a deep breath. "I – I wasn't sure how to properly tell you –"

"And that's fair," Paulus said calmly, "but I wish you _would_ have told me."

"I didn't know…" Daphne swallowed hard. "I didn't – I wasn't sure –"

"Come here."

His daughter was in his arms in a few seconds, and he could hear her work to fight back tears. He gently patted her on the back as she began to regain her composure.

"Daphne, I want you to be happy." He broke the embrace and looked at his daughter, who hastily wiped her eyes as quickly as she could. "And if Tracey makes you happy, then who am I to stand in the way of that?" He chuckled, a note of sadness. "I was incredibly lucky to find your mother – I'm happy you managed to find someone too. It's not easy."

"That's understating it," Daphne muttered, and Paulus laughed.

"Now, I want you two to be happy, but I want you to be safe." He eyed her sternly. "And just because you can't get pregnant doesn't mean feelings won't get involved, so please be careful."

Daphne took a deep breath. "O-Okay. What about Astoria?"

Paulus sighed heavily. _One of my daughters is a lesbian, and she's the daughter I can understand. _"Do you want me to talk to her?"

"It won't do you any good –"

"You don't know that," Paulus said sharply. "I'll talk to her."

"Thanks." It was rare Paulus heard a note of gratitude in his daughter's voice that wasn't sarcastic, and he took it for what it was worth as she sat back down, pouring herself a glass of orange juice. "Is it all right if Tracey stays a few more days? She's in the shower right now, but her parents are on holiday, and –"

"It's fine," Paulus said lightly, buttering some toast. "I've got a lot of paperwork to get through, but you'll know where to find me. Oh, and Daphne?"

"Yes?"

"You're sure, right?"

Daphne rolled her eyes, but at that moment, Tracey walked in, clad in a fluffy blue robe that matched her eyes, her hair still wet.

"I couldn't find –"

Her words were cut off, because Daphne had pulled her into a tight, hungry kiss. The blonde quickly acquiesced, and Paulus returned his attention to buttering his toast.

"You're sure," he replied with a grin as Daphne broke the embrace.

"Damn right I am."

* * *

The police officer coughed uneasily as he read through the letter, scrawled hastily in green ink on a very formal-looking piece of paper.

"I'll have to call this in –"

"No you won't," Rita said sweetly, lowering her voice to barely above a whisper and drawing her wand in one small, smooth motion. "_Confundus. Obliviate._"

The officer's eyes glazed over for a few seconds, and he handed the papers back to her. "It… it seems to be in order." He turned around and walked to the heavy grey filing cabinet behind him as Rita quickly stowed her wand in her coat. She glanced around the bustling Liverpool office – the charms she had cast going in had guaranteed no unwanted attention, and it didn't look as if anyone had spotted her spells. _Perfect_.

"Here we go," the officer mumbled, handing her the file. "Here's the file on Gunther as it is right now. You're lucky, autopsy report was fairly quick – guy was dead before he hit the ground, gun was a Walther PP and wasn't registered with anyone, no fingerprints left at the scene –"

"Just an eyewitness report," Rita muttered, flipping through the file as quickly as she could, scanning through the eyewitness report. _Brittany Lewis, young white female, saw the shooter briefly as she walked home from a midnight shift… apparently the light wasn't great, but he was 'bald, black and handsome'… rules Shacklebolt out, with those burns on his face…_

"If you want more information, you can talk to the new specialist for smuggling and trade crime," the officer said, his voice getting a little firmer as he jerked a fat thumb towards a closed door at the far end of the room. "He's working on tracing back Gunther's movements –"

"Thanks, I'll do that," Rita muttered, shoving the folder into the officer's hand and maneuvering past him towards the door, her mind racing. Why would they have called a specialist in international trade crime if Gunther had only worked in the wizarding world? _But then again, he might have had business in the Muggle world – but if that was the case, why on earth did You-Know-Who reportedly hire him?_

She rapped twice on the door, keeping her wand ready.

"Come in."

She slid into the dilapidated office. It clearly wasn't one that was used regularly, as mismatched boxes and files were scattered haphazardly around the room, and there was a thick coat of dust on the chairs. The man sitting in the one good chair in the office in his well-pressed suit and professional demeanour didn't match the décor – although his unkempt sandy hair and rugged face certainly did.

He eyed her suspiciously. "Can I help you?"

Rita gave him a cool smile. "Rita Skeeter, private investigator – I'm looking into the murder of Giles Gunther –"

"Stop lying, witch."

Rita sputtered. "What – _excuse_ _me_?"

"You're a witch," the officer said testily, leaning forward. "Come on, I can see the wand, woman."

Rita nearly pulled her wand out and Oblivated the man at that second, but something stayed her hand – he seemed far too collected to be blithely stating these facts. _Something's not right here._

"Are you – are you a wizard?"

The man's laugh was short and harsh. "Nah, but me son is. Me wife's a witch like you." He sighed with disgust. "And I knew, from the second I saw the attire of that wretched smuggler that he'd have somethin' to do with you. Nobody in possession of his right mind dresses like that here."

Rita kept her grip firmly on her wand. "And you haven't told –"

"I couldn't prove it to 'em even if I wanted to," the man replied curtly, "and since I can't – and since it doesn't come up, I haven't said a word. Me name is Finnigan, Pat Finnigan, and as you probably know, I'm the new specialist in trade crime around these parts. And you must be whoever _your_ world sends to investigate this sort of thing."

Rita smirked. "You… you could say that. So how the hell did anyone on your side know Gunther was a smuggler?"

"Found a few papers on him," Finnigan replied, pulling a filthy paper from a drawer and sliding it across the desk. "Details a shipment from the continent. Everything was specified in 'units', so we don't know what he was shippin', but I'll be damned if he wasn't shipping a lot of it. Thousands upon thousands, apparently delivered to Liverpool before he sails back to Hamburg to pick up more, and since there's no record of him docking anywhere in Liverpool, we're guessing smuggler."

"Germany, eh?" Rita asked softly, beginning to consider the possibilities as she scanned the paperwork – what the hell was Gunther trying to get from there that You-Know-Who wanted? "Do you have any idea what he was hauling?"

"Not a clue yet," Finnigan replied with visible frustration as he took back the paper and carefully folded it. "We're still havin' a devil of a time finding whatever blasted ship he was using. Nothing's been spotted or seen around the area. Then again, he might not have been working alone." He frowned. "You know, your type carries those wand things – we never found one on his body."

Rita paused – _that_ was new. Why hadn't anyone mentioned _that_ before, that Gunther's wand was missing? _If it was a Muggle who killed Gunther, why on earth would he take the wand – and if it was a wizard, why would he use a Muggle weapon when a Killing Curse is just as effective?_

"I feel I should ask, at this point," Finnigan began caustically, drumming his fingers on the table, "if there's anything you should inform me of before I go further in this investigation, Miss Skeeter. Do you know what Gunther was hauling?"

Rita gritted her teeth. "No."

"Do you have any idea why he was shot?"

"We have speculations."

Finnigan's eyes narrowed. "Do you have a _suspect_, Miss Skeeter? Do you know who did this, or is this just some fishing expedition, checking to see if we have something you don't?"

He had the right of it, although Rita would never admit it to him. "We have a suspect who matches many of the characteristics of your shooter, but there are some discrepancies for which we're trying to account," she said slowly, "and you shouldn't have any need to concern yourself."

"A man ends up dead on my watch, hauling God knows whatever into my country, and you tell me that 'I don't need to concern myself with it'?" Finnigan snorted. "Try again."

"Is there any record of Gunther related to Muggle smuggling?" Rita asked instead, keeping her eyes fixed on the officer as she stepped closer. "Drugs, weapons –"

"That's the other half of the reason I was called in, actually," Finnigan replied tersely, leaning back in his chair, which creaked badly under his weight. "The man was apparently responsible for bringin' in several shipments of guns – and here's the kicker: in one of his shipments, he brought in a couple dozen guns the same model as the one that did him in."

"Poetic justice," Rita muttered. "Do you know who they were sold to?"

"I was actually waiting for a call regarding that when you sashayed in here," Finnigan retorted, pulling another file from his desk. "And as of two minutes ago, the man's late – wonder what –"

The ringing caught Rita off-guard for half a second, but it was cut off as Finnigan yanked up the receiver.

"What?"

A few moments of silence.

"You're fucking kidding me."

Another few seconds. Rita had to stop herself from fidgeting.

"And you're sure? Not a – alright, I get the damn point. What else?"

The next few seconds were the longest still, and Rita watched the officer's hand clench into a tight fist as he took a steadying breath.

"Fine, I'll take care of it from here." He slammed down the receiver – and then looked up at her, his glare filled with contempt.

"Your kind couldn't leave ours well-enough alone, could you?"

"I don't know what you're –"

"The guns that Gunther was bringin' in were sold to a gang out of London," Finnigan said in a low voice. "Apparently these bastards have been trouble for some time, so much so that Scotland Yard had an agent undercover trying to bring things down." He snorted with derision. "Yeah, because _that_ works so bloody well."

"And this concerns us how…?" Rita pursued, unable to keep the eagerness from her voice.

"That agent was found dead just outside of Westminister half an hour ago. Not a bloody scratch on him, but a witness said she thought she saw a bright green light before she went to take a look and found a corpse." Finnigan's glare was baleful. "Last time I checked, nobody dies that way in _our_ world."

Rita took a steadying breath. _Someone used the Killing Curse on a Scotland Yard agent..._

"And that's not all."

"Excuse me?"

"There was another shooting." Finnigan's tone was grim. "This time in Dover. From the sounds of it, same shooter – big, bald, handsome black man with a Walther PP. Did it in broad daylight this time – they've got squads searching for the man, but they haven't got 'em yet."

"Who did he kill?" She kept her voice as blank as possible, even as a slight chill went down her spine.

Finnigan gave her a cruel smile. "They found a new British passport with the name 'Marcellus Fletcher' on the old man. Now, tell me, Miss Skeeter, _that_ name ring a bell?"


	6. Chapter 5: Bullets & Bombshells

_**Author's Notes: once again, a bit of a slower chapter, but one that covers a lot of ground and sets things up going forward, and I think that it touches on some ideas you don't see enough in fanfic.**_

_**Also, if anyone is interested, I write on other topics outside of fanfiction, namely music, TV, and film - if anything, when I'm not writing this story, I'm working on that. You can check it out from the link on my profile page. **_

_**But as always, read, review, bitch, criticize, and enjoy!**_

_Chapter 5: Bullets & Bombshells_

He had been alone for about three hours. The room they had locked him in was dilapidated, but functional. There wasn't any furniture in the room, and the wallpaper was peeling. The single window in the room was filthy and streaked by grime, a murky film obscuring overcast skies. There weren't any doors into the room – one could only Apparate to get inside. It wasn't a pleasant room, but outside of the appearance, it was comfortable enough.

At least at first. He started pacing ten minutes in, the floorboards creaking slightly beneath his nervous steps. He had sat down on the floors and waited for about a half hour, running over what he would say in his mind, the words he would need to say to salvage his choice.

All of his misgivings had come back in the next twenty minutes – and the fear had come back too. He could see their livid faces – on _both_ sides – and he felt the slick clamminess of sweaty fear. Maybe he had missed something, maybe he had made a mistake, maybe he hadn't quite figured out every answer, maybe he had misjudged everything…

At about an hour in, he had tried to Disapparate, and it had felt like he had gotten hit over the head with a saucepan. He had tried to cast a Reductor Curse on the wall, but it had just fizzled away into a surrounding enchantment. He had even tried to transform and find any crack in the walls to scurry out, but the instant he had tried it felt like needles were drilling into every inch of skin on his body.

He could acutely hear the ticking of his grubby watch when he had sat on the floor and begun to wait. The fear was still there, but now it was complimented by the tediousness of the situation. There was nothing to _do_ in the room, and he couldn't even transform to gain the simple comfort of a simpler mind. For all of its dilapidation, the room was just a bland, dreary room, nothing all that special or interesting or different…

He wasn't sure of the exact moment he had fallen asleep. He hadn't dreamed anything – or at least, he didn't think he had. The only fragments of a dream he had remembered was that he had been sitting in a bland, decaying room with no doors and a single window…

He shivered as he drew himself into a sitting position, putting a few fingers to his mouth and scratching the dirt underneath his nails free with his teeth. Why were they taking so long? He had come to them, he had thought they would have brought _someone_ in by now –

He paused. His eyes had caught a hint of colour – of velvet robes of deep purple, and glossy black boots – no, it wasn't a hint, he could see them –

Peter Pettigrew looked up, and for the first time in over fifteen years, he stared into the blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore.

There was no sparkle or glint of mischief in those eyes now. But to Peter's surprise, he didn't see fury there either. Or sadness. Or much of… _anything_. Dumbledore was simply staring at him, blinking slowly, eyeing every inch of the man he had once taught.

Pettigrew drew up his tattered robes and he slowly got to his feet. For a second, all of his carefully rehearsed speeches went out of his mind – he wasn't sure what to say, what he could say –

"Pr-Professor."

Dumbledore did not respond. He didn't nod, he didn't say a word. His eyes were still fixed on Pettigrew, though. There was a hardness there – stony, stoic, implacable.

"L-Look, Professor, it's good to see you," Pettigrew said, swallowing hard, trying to push back the creeping fingers of terror. "I – I… it's been a while."

The old wizard still didn't respond, and the fingers of terror brushed against Pettigrew's heart. He coughed as he tried to force back the whispered stories that some of the other Death Eaters had told in mutters. How the old wizard had only grown more powerful as the years had passed… more ruthless. How he might mask it behind kind, cheerful words or a benign smile, but that there was something, some _power_ beneath that façade that had the capacity to utterly obliterate whatever dared oppose it.

There were no cheerful words. There was no benign smile. There was… there was _nothing_. Dumbledore simply stared at him – there was no emotion, no feeling, no sound.

It terrified Pettigrew to his core.

"Pr-Professor sir, I s-swear – th-the Dark Lord has powers – he made me, he, he would have killed me!" He felt his knees hit the dusty floor, and he had no recollection of allowing them to buckle. "I – I had no choice, I couldn't just – he would have f-found another to bring him b-back –"

Dumbledore blinked, but still didn't say a word. But Pettigrew thought he saw a flicker of motion – the Headmaster's eyebrows seemed to narrow slightly. A narrowing that suggested suspicion… or contempt.

The cold fingers of terror had a firm grip on Pettigrew's heart now, and he felt his mouth racing, pleading for some vestige of clemency –

"I – I only came back because I thought th-there was a chance – w-with Sirius and Remus out of the country, th-that I could – Professor, you have to believe me, you know I would have never – you know I wouldn't – I couldn't, I didn't know that he would have gone, I didn't know he was going after Lily and James –"

"You are not the first Death Eater to tell me that."

Pettigrew's heart nearly stopped pounding wildly in his chest as Dumbledore's soft words cut off his babbling in mid-sentence. Soft words – filled with icy disappointment and absolute contempt.

"I did not believe it then," Dumbledore continued quietly, keeping his gaze fixed on Pettigrew, "and I do not believe it now."

"S-Sir, I would – I, I would never – James was my friend –"

"He was," Dumbledore replied emotionlessly. "So was Lily. So was Sirius. How many, Peter? I suspect you are far more aware than I."

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop the trembling – or the numbness that was slowly spreading in the silver fingertips of his right hand, a numbness that filled him with a new type of fear. What was it? Where did it come from? Was it the Dark Lord's pitiless retribution for his treason –

"S-Sir, I came back, I came back b-because I, I want to –" He coughed. "I – I couldn't, not – the D-Dark Lord, he's doing something – it's crazy, he's changed, what he has planned…"

"And you know these plans, Peter?" Dumbledore asked, and this time, Pettigrew could hear the note of bitter disappointment tinged with certainty in his voice – a note that made him feel worse than the filth he had eaten from when he had lived as a rat in the sewer. "You plan to bargain for… what, exactly, Peter? You could have disappeared into the muck, and I sincerely doubt even Lord Voldemort could have found you."

He was wrong about that – and Dumbledore didn't seem to know, and that was terrifying unto itself. It had taken Pettigrew months to attempt to flee, and every tingle in his silver hand told him the Dark Lord's retribution was coming. He'd heard the high cold voice in his mind before he'd ever see the spell – if he even saw that.

But in the back of his mind, he knew that he had had the courage to run, once he had seen even the tiny fraction of the labyrinthine plan to which he had been allowed to see. That had to mean something –

"You had a reason for coming here, Peter," Dumbledore said, interrupting Pettigrew's thoughts. "I would like to know that reason now."

"The D-Dark Lord," Pettigrew stammered, "he – he's not – something happened to him after the fight at – at the Ministry, h-he's… he's _different_ now."

Dumbledore paused. "Continue."

"He's got plans – big plans, and I don't know half – no, a tenth of it – but he, he's delegated most of it – Rookwood, Bellatrix, Yaxley, Goyle –"

"Goyle, you say?" There was definite interest in Dumbledore's voice, and Pettigrew felt a quiver of hope. Maybe there was something –

But the quiver of hope vanished a second later, as Dumbledore's calm, cold expression returned. "Continue, Peter."

"He – he sent Dolohov on a secret mission, he's been gone for months – b-but I… I saw something bigger. I, I overheard – He – he's searching for some… for some –"

His silver hand bucked, and Pettigrew felt a jolt of pain surge through his arm. The numbness had reached his palm – yet somehow, his fingers were flexing threateningly.

"What is he searching for?"

"I don't – I don't know what it is," Pettigrew cried desperately, "but he's obsessed with it – he, he says R-Rookwood got the first piece from the Department, the Department of Mysteries, and he's going to find the second –"

Another jolt shook him, and he let out a strangled cry as he collapsed on the ground. Knives of crystalized agony, surging up through the nerves of the stump, the silver digits clenching into a fist...

But he had to say it. It was just one word, he could get out one word, that'd be enough, and then maybe Dumbledore would help him –

"What is Lord Voldemort seeking?"

The voice sounded very far away against the backdrop of pain, but Pettigrew knew this answer. A meaningless word, but it meant something – to someone. Maybe it would help.

His arm snapped up, and he felt the silver hand plunge its silver fingers through skin and muscle, clenching gore as it tore away at his throat.

But before he passed out, he knew the word had come, blood-soaked from bloodless lips.

"_L-Lorelei._"

* * *

They had chosen to hide inside the old shed.

It was full of their Dad's 'projects' – half-finished ideas, dissembled Muggle gadgets, broken fragments of technology.

"The perfect hiding spot," Fred Weasley murmured, shoving the overlarge door shut behind him into the doorframe – the damp wood swollen with moisture – that was too small for the door. "Considering Dad's new job, he's not going to be working in here."

"If we got our own place, it'd be easier –"

"Yeah, but I want to keep an eye on Mum and Dad," Fred replied darkly, rubbing away some of the grease on one of the windows. "Dad's gonna be working with some bad people, and that means we should keep an eye out in case they double-cross him."

George let out an unsteady breath as he set down the trunk. "And that's more a matter of 'when' than 'if'," he finished.

They had once specialized in making people laugh. They had been great at it. Hell, Harry had given them a sack full of a thousand Galleons so they could make a store to provide all sorts of things so they could keep doing it.

But then the Ministry attack had happened. The first one – the one with the goblin explosives that had taken out multiple floors. The one that had been followed by a goblin bombing during Cornelius Fudge's speech on the brand new bank.

The one that had gotten Charlie killed.

"Bill's out, he's doing something for Dumbledore," George began uneasily, ticking off the names on his fingers. "Percy's a prat and he'd never go for it. And I hope I speak for the two of us that I don't want to get Ginny involved in this."

"That's fair."

"That," George continued with a sigh, "leaves Ron."

"He's closer to Harry," Fred said bracingly, "and you'd bet Harry would be willing to help if we told him."

"Still set on the surprise?"

Fred smiled slightly. "Well, obviously."

"And Ron…" George shrugged. "Well, he gets it."

The smile was gone. "Yeah, that's true."

"Still a bit of a prat, though," George said, with a weak grin. "He – well, he couldn't hurt."

"And we're not going show him _everything_, of course," Fred said fairly. "He can – well, I dunno, maybe keep an eye on Greengrass or something. We'll find something – he's not totally useless."

"Stategy?"

Fred cocked an eyebrow. "Beg your pardon?"

"He _is_ good at chess. Something of that should carry over somehow."

Fred's smile faded as he tugged the worn, dog-eared journal from his bag. The pages were yellowed by age, dirt, and potion spills – and nearly black from page upon page of diagrams and ideas his twin and he had collected over the years.

George fished the key to his trunk out of his jeans pocket and shoved it in the lock, giving it an expert twist. The lock clicked, and he tugged the lid open.

Multiple collapsible cauldrons of a dozen different metals. Carefully sorted potions ingredients in labelled boxes, and row upon row of completed potions tightly fastened into wire racks.

And at the very bottom, a heap of glassy stones in a box nailed shut. They seemed as innocuous as pebbles on a riverbed.

Fred and George knew better. Every one of those stones had potential for something far more potent – and far more dangerous.

"Yeah," Fred murmured, "I think we're playing on a much bigger game board now."

* * *

It was always unnerving returning to his regular body after being inside his simulacrum – particularly when he opened his eyes to see the shabby second bedroom of Number 4, Privet Drive.

Harry sighed with impatience as he rolled to the edge of the bed, stretching out his legs. It was maddening that he had to return here – particularly after all of the chaos of the last year – but even he had to admit it was a safe place to stash his body when he wasn't using it. Quiet, impregnable against Voldemort, he couldn't complain.

_And it's not like the Dursleys give a damn whether I leave my room or not_, Harry thought as he pulled a fresh t-shirt from his trunk and tugged it over his head. _Hell, they probably don't even_ –

"BOY!"

Harry felt a rush of real surprise as he grabbed his trainers. Why on earth was Uncle Vernon yelling _now_? He hadn't left his room since he had gotten home from the Hogwarts Express, why did he –

"KITCHEN! _NOW_!"

Harry sighed with exasperation and pushed open his door. He hurried down the stairs, completely ignoring Dudley's strange look as he stepped into the kitchen. Even despite the fact that Harry could smell freshly cooked pancakes and bacon in the air, the kitchen still looked unnaturally clean.

Vernon Dursley was standing at the table, his fleshy palms firmly planted upon it, and he stared at Harry with beady, unblinking eyes, an expression of fury on his purplish face.

Harry leaned against the doorframe. "You rang?"

The sarcasm had come naturally – although Harry suspected increased amount of time around Tonks hadn't helped matters – and it only caused Uncle Vernon to swell like a discoloured balloon.

"I received," he said tersely, barely controlled his rage, "_mail. _It's addressed to _you_."

Harry frowned. That _was_ strange – why could they have just sent an owl or –

"Boy, why is mail addressed to you coming into _my_ letterbox?"

Harry tried to restrain his grin at the sight – a muscle was pulsing in Uncle Vernon's temple, and Harry couldn't help but feel less intimidated than ever before. _After what I saw last year, Uncle Vernon's got nothing on Alastor Moody – or Dmitri Kemester._

"Well," Harry began slowly, "it might be because – just thinking out loud – I live here."

It was the wrong answer.

"I WILL NOT TOLERATE YOUR POST GOING THROUGH MY HOUSE IN ANY WAY BESIDES THAT BLASTED BIRD! HOW DARE YOU IMPLICATE US BY ASSOCIATION IN YOUR WILD HOOLIGANRY –"

"Yes, because _this_ is what I want whenever I get a letter," Harry interrupted, rolling his eyes. "Can I see it?"

Uncle Vernon looked as if he would burst a blood vessel, but he shoved a piece of paper across the table. "I couldn't make heads nor tails of the nonsense."

"I didn't give you permission to open my mail," Harry said sharply.

"IT COMES TO MY HOUSE THROUGH MY POST," Uncle Vernon roared, "WHEN THAT BLASTED PSYCHOPATH WHO BLEW UP YOUR WORTHLESS PARENTS COULD _TRACK_ YOU HERE, AND YOU THINK –"

"More than you," Harry said with growing annoyance, picking up the paper. "No Death Eater is going to try and track me through the Muggle post. Trust me, if Lord Voldemort knew where I was, he'd come here himself."

And without another word, he stepped out of the room.

A few steps and a door later, he was walking towards the park near Magnolia Crescent. His wand was tucked carefully into his jeans pocket, ready at a second's notice in case someone _did_ try something.

The park was deserted, and Harry sat on one of the swings. He unfolded the letter and began to read with growing confusion.

_Mr. Potter,_

_The vanished name has been inked, and the vial has been broken. Fear more than conflicted silent nights, for soon there will be blood on every door – and this time, it won't keep the angel and the horseman out._

_The map has been burned, but the treasures remain. If you want them – and you do – climb to the top of a haunted castle, and take twenty steps backwards off the edge. It'll get you halfway there._

_-The 'Traveller'_

_Postscript: burn this._

"Reading something interesting?"

Harry started, and Tonks chuckled as she leaned against another swing, her hair flickering from magenta to pink. "Good, I can still surprise you."

"It was sent by Muggle post to the Dursleys," Harry said with a frown, "and I can't make head or tails of it."

"That's why we have Dumbledore," Tonks said with a smile, tapping Harry on the shoulder. "He's really good at riddles."

"Can the Death Eaters use Muggle post to track me there?"

Tonks frowned. "If they could, they wouldn't be able to attack magically –"

"That might not stop them."

"Good point," Tonks conceded. "Okay, let's get back to Dumbledore – maybe he can help."

* * *

"I removed the silver hand." Dumbledore drummed his fingers on the table. "But he still passed out, and I suspect he will likely go into shock. Madam Pomfrey will work to stabilize him, but until then, I will not be able to help."

"Did he give us anything of use?" Dedalus asked eagerly.

"At this point, not much at all," Dumbledore said with frustration. "The few leads he provided were vague at best. Still, his presence is a boon – if we can clear Sirius of the murder charges, it will open up a few doors."

"Could also make Parkinson's life difficult," Mad-Eye Moody added, a twisted smirk on his scarred face. "If we play it right, returning Sirius and Pettigrew to the public spotlight would add a complication for which Scrimgeour's better prepared. Might give Kingsley a bit of a break, too."

Kingsley took a deep breath – after the death of the last investigator, the Sirius Black case had been reassigned to him, and even though he knew the case was effectively a sham, it'd be nice to close it for good. "True enough, Alastor. Now –"

The door banged open, and Moody's wand was drawn in an instant –

"Marcellus," Mundungus breathed, his eyes damp as he clutched at the side of his chest. "Dumbledore, 'e's – 'e's _dead_."

Dumbledore closed his eyes as Moody slowly lowered his wand.

"How?"

"Same as Gunther," Mundungus whispered, slumping against the wall. "Bullet right in the head. Same bloke too, who shot 'em."

"Wait a moment," Kingsley asked sharply. "You're talking about Giles Gunther, the smuggler? He's _dead_?"

Dumbledore shot Moody – who was adjusting his grip on his wand – a warning look, but Kingsley didn't miss it. "Albus, is there something you're not telling me?"

The Headmaster took a deep breath. "Giles Gunther was killed two nights ago, killed by a Muggle bullet. Marcellus Fletcher reported it to Rufus Scrimgeour, who received testimony in exchange for immunity. And now it appears that Marcellus Fletcher's plans for immunity led to his demise in the same way." The Headmaster shook his head. "A terrible tragedy."

"And why wasn't I told about this?" Kingsley demanded.

"Because the description of the primary suspect," Moody growled, his mismatched eyes fixed on Kingsley, "matched _yours_."

"But you know I have an alibi –"

He paused, and he felt his stomach tense. It couldn't be, it just _couldn't_ –

But in his gut, he doubted there was any other answer.

_And at this point, I shouldn't even be surprised._

He pulled his cloak off of the back of his chair. "I'll be back tomorrow, if not sooner."

"Where are you going?" Dumbledore asked inquistively. "Kingsley, do you know the suspect?"

"I thought I did," Kingsley snapped, "but we haven't talked in a long time, so something might have fallen between the cracks?"

"Cut the bullshit, Kingsley," Moody barked. "Two people are dead, who is it?"

Kingsley shut his eyes as his hand rested on the doorknob. "His name," he said through gritted teeth, gritted against the disappointment and anger and shame, "is Keith Shacklebolt. He's a Squib – and he's my brother."

* * *

"_Well?"_

"_Well what?"_

"_Did you tell him?"_

"_He got the message, if that's what you're referring to."_

"_Is he aware of the danger? Does he understand –"_

"_How could he understand if even I don't fully grasp whatever the fuck you're doing here?"_

"_There's a reason for that."_

"_Oh, I'm _sure_."_

"_This isn't a game, Traveller. This is a matter greater than life and death. Are you willing to risk everything that has been built –"_

"_No."_

"_Then do your job, and there won't be problems."_

"_Can I ask you something?"_

"_Ask away."_

"_What gives you the right? Huh? What gives you the goddamned right to do this – to do any of it? To what _authority_ are you beholden to that you have to do this? The only_ real _power you have here is through me."_

_Silence, and then –_

"_Ah. So _that's_ how it is."_

"_Precisely."_

* * *

"I cannot help but notice," Dumbledore said, carefully folding the letter, "that you did not burn this."

"Figured it'd be better I show it to you, so you get everything first-hand," Harry conceded, dropping into a chair opposite Dumbledore. "And Tonks already checked it for Tracking Charms or anything of the like – and besides, it was originally sent, and sent properly, by Muggle Post. It's reasonable to assume the Death Eaters wouldn't do that. And now that we're here, at Headquarters…"

"It is indeed apt to surmise that the enchantments upon Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place would remain intact," Dumbledore said firmly, glancing up over the bridge of his glasses at Harry, "particularly since we reclaimed it – and even if Lord Voldemort might be able to identify the street, he knows nothing else."

"Any ideas, Professor?" Tonks asked heavily as Dumbledore spread the parchment flat on the table. "I couldn't make heads nor tails of it – it seems pretty oblique. Some sort of code?"

"Perhaps, but I doubt it," Dumbledore murmured, his brow furrowing with thought. "Symbolism is oft a superior mask to a common encryption, only deciphered by those with wit and extensive knowledge." The old man grinned. "Fortunately, between the three of us, I feel we have something of an advantage in this area."

"You know, this reads like a prophecy," Harry said with a frown. "All this weird language, the weird feeling that's there's a double meaning with each word –"

"Wait – 'vanished name has been inked'," Tonks said abruptly, tapping on the parchment, her hair shortening and turning white. "That could imply that someone's signed something as someone else, someone who's been dead for a long time."

"You are talking about the Vuneren name," Dumbledore replied sharply.

"But you were 'Nymphadora Vuneren' before," Harry argued, "so why are we getting this now?"

"Because she was _not_ Nymphadora Vuneren," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "Not technically, at least. She may have claimed the identity, but by actually creating Desdame & Vuneren and certifying any magical business contracts in that name, the Vuneren 'name' may indeed have been inked."

"And that's significant?"

"Let us keep reading, and find out." Dumbledore tapped on the next few words. "A broken vial – intentionally broken or accidental, and what might have been inside of it? That might require some additional work to crack. The next line, however, may be more pertinent. 'Fear more than conflicted silent nights'. I wonder…"

Harry fought to keep his face as expressionless as possible. _That_ line made sense to him – and even though he couldn't sense the presence lurking somewhere in his mind, he knew _it_ was there, in some form –

"I believe it is another reference to the Vuneren family."

Harry started. "Sorry?"

"The key words here, I believe, are 'silent nights', a reference to a religious Yuletide carol," Dumbledore began calmly, tapping his finger on the paper. "The next references are simple, and yet provide concrete proof that Lord Voldemort did _not_ send this letter. You see, both are from the Muggle Bible, the first from the Book of Exodus, the second from the Revelations of St. John."

Tonks fidgeted slightly. "Okay, but if I remember correctly from the History of Magic classes in which I was totally awake, I don't recall witches and wizards having the best of relationships with the Church, so how is this related to the Vuneren family?"

"And you would be correct," Dumbledore agreed, "and here is where we reach a famously contentious area of history and politics regarding pureblood families, and one of the biggest reasons that the Vuneren family was commonly ostracized, despite their wealth and magical power. You see, as a family, the Vunerens were devoutly religious."

Harry frowned. "How does that – no, wait, I don't remember anything showing up like that when I saw them in that memory –"

"They kept their faith concealed, and for very good reason," Dumbledore said, his voice surprisingly sad and bitter. "Religion is often a trying and frustrating topic in the magical community, vehemently shouted down if one dares to raise the topic. The old pagan faiths are often viewed as hedge magic, only fit for hermits, simpletons and magical creatures. And given the centuries of persecution, one can easily understand the magical community's reluctance to associate with any Judeo-Christian faith."

"So, what exactly did the Vuneren family believe in?" Harry asked with growing confusion. "Did they follow old pagan rites, or were they with the Church?"

Dumbledore closed his eyes. "At this point, Harry, I can only speculate. Due to the antagonism the Vuneren family had when their children briefly attended Hogwarts, the family had been home-schooling their children for well over a century. It did not help matters when the old Vuneren patriarch and I had a disagreement during the years of my conflict with Grindelwald, and despite my many entreaties, no contact was ever re-established." He sighed, and Harry could see the disappointment in his eyes. "To this day, I do not know how Nathan Cassane managed to convince them to support him in the early days of the war. What I do know is that Lord Voldemort, reportedly on the behest of Lucius Malfoy, personally destroyed the Vuneren family, leaving none alive."

Harry glanced over at Tonks. Her hair had gone long and white-blonde – exactly like the Vunerens he had seen in the memory of the Yule party Cassane had given them…

"The next reference," Dumbledore said suddenly, breaking the moment of silence as he tapped the parchment, "seems obscure. 'The map has burned, yet the treasures remain'… ideas, Harry?"

"Uh…" He felt as if Dumbledore had put him on the spot, and he began wracking his brain. _It's not like I found any treasures, even in the Potter Vaults, and it's not like I used any maps… wait a minute…_

"There was a map," he said, taking a deep breath. "If we're talking about the Vunerens here – well, Cassane was the only who connected to them, and he had a big bloody map on his wall. Don't know how it would have caught fire –"

"But it does suggest that there _are_ treasures of some sort in Cassane's manor that we need to get a hold of," Tonks added decisively. "Certainly before the goblins nick everything –"

"A good plan, but I do not think it is precisely what this 'Traveller' was referring to." Dumbledore folded his hands and leaned back slightly in his chair. "If we were just to go to Cassane's manor and claim whatever is there, why mention this 'haunted castle'? It's a fresh riddle in and of itself."

"Well, the haunted castle's probably Hogwarts," Tonks said reasonably. "I mean, given what happened there last year –"

"No, it's not Hogwarts," Harry said softly. "Not this time. Besides, after we went down into that weird chamber, I hardly ever saw any ghosts at Hogwarts."

He didn't know how he just seemed to _know_ – outside of a horrible feeling in his gut telling him he knew _exactly_ where that knowledge seemed to spring – but his tone must have been off. Tonks gave him a curious, almost concerned look. _I need to deflect this –_

"But there's other haunted castles in Britain, right, Professor?"

Dumbledore's eyes brightened. "Several, as a matter of fact, but I feel we might be able to narrow our search significantly. You see, despite the fact I never did set foot in the Vuneren Estate, I do know where it is rumoured to be. The Vuneren patriarch liked some of the trappings of aristocracy –"

"Strange that he chose to live in Scotland then," Tonks muttered, repressing a grin.

"– And one of the wealthiest areas of Great Britain is a subdivision of the city of Edinburgh called Blackhall," Dumbledore continued, drawing his wand with one smooth motion. A second later, a map had appeared in his hand and he spread it across the table. He pointed down at the north-west segment of the city. "My suspicions always were that the Vuneren estate was just further north-west."

"You go much further north-west, you end up in the water," Harry pointed out. "But still… and Edinburgh has a haunted castle?"

"One of the most haunted in the country," Dumbledore confirmed with a firm nod. "Once you are finished with Cassane, the castle should be your next target. I strongly advise you bring the Ectoplasmic tools Cassane gave you – the spirits that lurk within Castle Edinburgh have a reputation for being dark spirits indeed. I will speak with Bode regarding a repository for any ghosts you send him through the Projector –"

"Well, you might want to speak to Bode regarding _other_ things."

"Oh, good morning Miss Vance," Dumbledore said with a smile, looking up from the map to the distinctly dishevelled witch. Even though her hair was tangled and her robes were filthy, she still carried herself with an air of distinct dignity. "Any news?"

"Yeah, we're going to need everyone we've got," Emmeline Vance said hurriedly, raking her hand desperately through her hair. "I got a tip – apparently, Voldemort and a bunch of Death Eaters are moving into Liverpool –"

Dumbledore's smile faded instantly. "Gunther's vessel."

"Yeah." Emmeline shook her head helplessly. "My guess is Voldemort thinks he can find it before we can or before it runs aground or before it hits another ship that can't see it because of the Invisibility Charms. Albus, I caught a glimpse of one of the groups on the coast, a bunch of werewolves and… Merlin, Albus, even if we get everyone, we're going to be outnumbered in a bad way. Can Bode fight worth a damn?"

"We can't risk Bode, his information is invaluable," Dumbldore replied briskly, Vanishing the map with a wave of his wand. "Do we know how close –"

"By the time we get people together, _he'll_ already be there," Emmeline said tersely. "And then it'll only be a matter of time."

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Harry exclaimed, getting up, his wand already in his hand. "We can't just let him –"

"Hang on a second," Emmeline protested, pointing at Harry, "we can't risk _him_ –"

"We're doing neither," Dumbledore replied firmly. "Emmeline, inform the rest of the Order I will be joining the fight personally. _Under no circumstance_ are they to directly engage with Lord Voldemort's forces before I get there, it's far too dangerous and I will not have anyone taking foolish risks with their own lives."

"What about Kingsley?"

"Send him a message via Patronus, but do not assume he will be able to join us," Dumbledore instructed after a second of thought. "I wager he may be battling far more difficult demons of his own."

"Got it," and Emmeline Vance Disapparated without another word.

Harry looked askance at Dumbledore. "You're not going to let me –"

"Not in _that_ body, no," Dumbledore replied enigmatically, his eyes twinkling.

Harry understood immediately. "Okay, second simulacrum then?"

"Precisely. You and Tonks will be with me, both for your protection and mine. And it is always a good thing to learn in the heat of the moment, Harry, and I personally would dearly love to see whatever strange amplifications your second simulacrum possesses on something of a _grander_ scale."

Harry's eyes went wide, and he felt his heart pounding with both anticipation and fear. "You're – you're going to teach me –"

"You won't be able to cast everything I might choose to utilize," Dumbledore continued calmly, "but I suspect there might be a spell or two you could come to grasp quickly enough. A good learning experience, I think. Interested?"

"Yeah, absolutely!" Harry took a deep breath and began to focus on the tarnished silver cord on the edge of his vision. "Come on, Tonks."

"Professor," Tonks began quickly, "you know I'm fully capable –"

"At this point, you have been named in a letter that we must assume carries the weight of a prophecy," Dumbledore said, cutting off Tonks' protestations instantly. "That letter suggests greater stakes than just a treasure that the Vuneren family may have hidden."

"How did you –"

"Blood on doors," Dumbledore said gravely, "and an angel and a horseman. Do you know what they symbolize, Harry?"

Harry felt a chill, and the word leapt to his lips before he could shiver. "Death?"

"Yes," Dumbledore replied, a grim note in his voice. "We faced it last year, and I suspect that before the day and night is out, we may face it again."


End file.
